The Light That Binds

by Nathan Garrison

  “He’s right, you know,” Ilyem said, blue light reflecting off her close-shaven head. “So much changed in so little time. Everyone had to readjust, even our kind.” She gave him a slight, knowing look, not quite a smile. “Especially our kind.”

  “Besides,” Idrus said, his uncannily observant eyes giving Mevon a thorough examination, “whatever it was that you set out to do seems to have done you good.”

  Mevon sighed, standing a little straighter. He hadn’t realized how much of a burden he’d placed upon himself trying to justify his actions in their eyes. But they’d proven, once again, far greater friends than he could ever be, their understanding lifting that weight from his shoulders like it was nothing. Nothing at all.

  “Well, now that we have that settled,” Yandumar said, “let’s move on to more pleasant matters.”

  “You call planning a war pleasant, old man?” Orbrahn said, still tinkering with the contraption at his feet. “More like an exercise in tedium.”

  “Quit your bellyaching, boy. You know as well as the rest of us that this is what we were all bred for. And what can be more satisfying than doing what you know you’re meant to?”

  Mevon smiled. “I couldn’t agree more, Father.”

  “Using your own child to gang up on me now?” Orbrahn said. “Not the most sporting tactic, old man. Fine then. I’ll just be over here trying to get this abyss-taken thing to work while you all chat. Come get me when you need something sorcerous solved.”

  Yandumar sighed as Orbrahn dragged the box-thing into the farthest corner of the cabin and turned his back on them. “Sometimes I wonder why I appointed him to my inner circle.”

  “You couldn’t trust anyone else,” Idrus said. “And despite his arrogance, he’s always been willing to learn.”

  Yandumar grunted. “I suppose he has at that.”

  “What that he’s working on?” Mevon asked.

  “Either a puff of smoke and a pile of ash . . . or something that might actually prove useful. I’m sure we’ll find out which soon enough.”

  “You don’t sound very hopeful.”

  “Just mindful of history, son. It hasn’t always been kind to our young friend.”

  Mevon smiled.

  “Gentlemen,” Ilyem said, wearing a look unreadable to most but which Mevon knew for impatience. “May I suggest we begin?”

  “Aye,” Idrus added. “We’ll need to make preparations for every conceivable circumstance with this one. The situation is . . . tricky.”

  “How so?” Mevon said. “I’ve only heard the basics.”

  “For one, the enemy—ruvak, they’re called—are mostly airborne.”

  “Airborne? You can’t mean . . . ?”

  “They have ships that fly,” Yandumar said. “Not too fast, mind you, but still highly mobile. The only upside is that our . . . allies . . . have similar capabilities, if not quite so many.”

  “But not us,” Mevon said.

  Idrus flicked his eyes toward Orbrahn. “Not yet.”

  Mevon crossed his arms, one hand reaching up to rub his chin. “Tricky indeed. I suppose we could use sorcery to bring them down.”

  “Not on our own,” Ilyem said. “Though plentiful, we only have dark casters. From what we’ve been told, only dark and light together can do them harm.”

  “That’s going to be a problem.”

  “Which is why we’re sailing southeast,” Yandumar said. “We’re to land on the western shores of a land called Panisahldron, then march inland through their jungles to reinforce the main allied force at their capital. Their light casters outnumber the dark more than three to one. What we add should help even those numbers a bit.”

  “Seems a sound plan. But what about ground combat? I assume these ruvak do not stay in the air entirely. What capabilities do they possess on foot?”

  “They’ve at least three troop types that have been identified so far,” Idrus said. “Large, heavy infantry, and lightly armoured skirmishers. The latter, apparently, have been seen jumping over the heads of upright men.”

  “Interesting. And unprecedented. What measures have you taken against them?”

  “I’ve made spears our primary infantry weapon, and had the troops practice against thrown sacks full of sand. Our bowmen have switched to shortbows and drill all day for speed. The worst of them can release nine shafts a mark.” Idrus sighed, holding up his hands and shrugging. “Until we meet them in battle, though, this is all just guesswork.”

  Mevon nodded. He knew that no plan lasted long past first contact, and you couldn’t truly know an enemy until you’ve crossed blades with them. Still, the preparations seemed effective based on what limited, secondhand information they could get.

  “You mentioned a third type,” Mevon said. “What do you know about them?”

  “Little,” Ilyem said. “But we’ve been told they tend to keep their distance in battle, ravaging our allies’ lines with strange, chaotic energy.”

  “Magic?”

  “Most think so.”

  “Do we know if—”

  “Our kind can negate it?” Ilyem shook her head. “It has yet to be tested.”

  Mevon grunted. “We’ll find out quick enough once we face them.”

  He felt energy surge from the corner of the cabin as the air filled with a crackling hum. He glanced over at Orbrahn just as the young man lifted his arms in triumph and shouted, “I got it!”

  The box, the contraption he’d been working on, now floated of its own accord.

  “If we can get those working on a larger scale,” Yandumar said, nodding forlornly towards the flying device, “we’ll find out sooner still.”

  Gilshamed slid a finger along Lashriel’s forehead, pushing a strand of long, violet hair out of her face, giving dawn’s rays free rein to dance across her cheek, her jaw, her lips, the tip of her perfect nose. Her breaths came steady, each a whispered assurance that all was well. Though her eyes were closed, he knew that when they opened there would be awareness and intelligence behind them. There would be a soul.

  If he could choose one moment, one sliver to pull from time’s merciless, raging river, it would be this one. Here, lying beside his wife, watching as she slumbered, forgetting the centuries they’d been separated, the torments they’d both endured, was as close to bliss as he would likely see this side of paradise.

  And since he was no longer sure that anything waited for him beyond abyss’s dark, cold curtain, he would cherish such moments all the more.

  He dropped his hand to the bare peak of her shoulder, brushed it down her side to the valley that was her waist, then up her hip’s smooth, curved mound. She stirred at his touch, back arching, arms stretching out to encircle his neck. A sound, half moan, half yawn, purred from her throat. Her lashes parted above a growing smile.

  Joy, thought Gilshamed. So this is what it feels like.

  “Good morning, my love,” she said.

  “It is indeed,” he said, drinking in the sight of her lively, violet eyes. “The best that ever was.”

  She snuggled closer. Breath pulsed from her open, anxious mouth, so sweet it seemed holy. Their lips touched with a spark. His hand fell to the small of her back and pulled her closer, tighter and tighter, until he could no longer tell where he ended and she began. As it was meant to be. As they had been, once, so very long ago.

  With a sigh and a laugh that threatened to sink Gilshamed into ancient memories, Lashriel pulled away. He regretfully allowed the space between them to widen, at least enough to where they could look once more into each other’s eyes.

  “Trying to make up for lost time?” she asked.

  Though her tone was obviously playful, Gilshamed still felt a hollow ache in his chest. For her sake, though, he responded with what he hoped was a convincing smile. “There are many things I feel I need to make up for, but this is the only one I wish to.”

  “As do I.” She kissed him again, lightly, bringing a hand down to rub his chest. “But another day aw
aits, my love, and you have a world to go save.”

  “Do I?”

  She frowned. He’d meant to phrase it as a jest, but in her arms he was laid open, vulnerable, his soul’s truth too raw to conceal. Hiding anything from her would require a great deal of effort, a task made more difficult by the fact that he did not want to. He wanted only to be honest with her, in every way.

  I just wish I could spare you from worry.

  Her furrowed brow let him know that he was failing.

  “Don’t say that, Gil. People need you. Nations need you.”

  “But I only need you, my love. The abyss can have the rest.”

  “It will unless someone stands against it, spitting defiance in its face. No one does that better than you.”

  “I used to think that, as well.” Gilshamed sighed, rolling onto his back to stare at the vaulted white ceiling of their bedchamber. “But I’m afraid that’s no longer the case.”

  “How could that be?”

  “The world moved on, Lash. You were lost, and I spent every waking moment searching for a way to bring you back. I spurned all responsibilities, all relationships, all cares, became single-minded in my quest. Destructive. I went . . . a little mad. More than a little.

  “The world moved on, and now others have taken upon their shoulders the mantle of its protection. People more skilled, more motivated, more selfless than I have the heart to now be. People better than I ever was.

  “The world moved on . . . and they do not need me anymore.”

  Lashriel buried her face between his shoulder and neck, and for the longest time said nothing. He stroked her hair gently, content to let be the silence and stillness. So long as he was with her, he could endure anything.

  It wasn’t until he felt a smear of wetness across his upper chest that he realized she was crying.

  His hand froze, still entwined in her curls, and his mouth went dry. He did not know what to say, what to do. His instinct for such things had died alongside so many other parts of him along the way. The ability to give comfort seemed as alien as the ruvak.

  “What’s wrong?” he said at last.

  “Nothing,” she said, wiping her cheeks.

  “No, what is it? You can tell me.”

  Lashriel breathed deeply, shaking and clutching him tight. “We’ve lost so much of ourselves, Gil. We aren’t what we used to be. I look at you and it’s like peering through clouded glass at my own memories. I look in the mirror and I see a stranger.”

  She lifted her head, now pinning him with wide, glistening eyes. “We found each other, though, after everything we’ve been through. And despite the brutal odds, we managed to reclaim us again.

  “We won’t ever be the same as the selves from before. I know that. But if there’s a chance, any chance at all, to hold on to the old parts of us, the best parts, then we shouldn’t give up on them without a fight.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You loved who you were, Gil. Leading people. Fighting with all your strength to save the weak. Standing up to those who would use their power to dominate those without it. It was your entire identity . . . and you loved it. You were whole.”

  “Maybe,” Gilshamed said, touched by her words, her insight into the one soul he never dared delve too deeply. “But that part of me only brought us both to ruin.”

  “That was not your fault. You have to know that!”

  “I do not. Had I only paid you the kind of attention you deserved, you never would have—”

  “Hush now, my love. I never blamed you for trying to keep me safe from the ravages of war. I still don’t. But the young and able-bodied are not meant to sit idle while others die on their behalf. The urge to action itched strong in us all. And Voren? Voren was . . . inspirational.”

  “He was,” Gilshamed admitted. “He was indeed.”

  “So,” she said as she rose, hair tumbling like a silken waterfall over her shoulders. “You get up, my love. You walk out that door. You attend to your duties. You go and save the world. After all, it’s what you were born to do.”

  Seeing her standing there, with hands now planted on her hips, wearing nothing but an all-too-serious gaze, Gilshamed couldn’t help but laugh. He rose from the bed, grasped her hands and pulled them to his face, planting kisses across the backs of her fingers. Spinning away, he strode to the wardrobe and began to dress, filled, for the first time in centuries, with a small but welcome measure of peace.

  Tassariel stepped lightly down the corridor of an unfamiliar level of the tower. The stone walls bled cold, consuming all sound, while the lightglobes did little more than stab needles of illumination into the shadows. No other soul had yet crossed her path. She had been hesitant to follow the directions she’d been given; during her stay—however brief it was—she’d never known this place to be used.

  She glanced down at her dirty caretaker’s robe, unsure if it was fitting attire. Having just come off her shift, she probably should have gone home to change first, but exhaustion pulled at her limbs, and she knew that her hammock would have been too tempting a sight to resist. Besides, her home was only really good for sleep, nowadays. Sleep, but no rest. She had no desire to see any more of it than was necessary.

  Eventually, the corridor ended, splitting to either side in a broad arc that wrapped around to meet itself somewhere nearer the tower’s core. This was the fifth such round chamber she’d arrived at. Oval glass the size of her torso, spaced evenly along the inner circle, slanted inward to grant viewing of the sunken space beyond. The windows of the other chambers had been dark. These, however, glowed with faint but steady light.

  Looks like I’ve finally found the right one.

  Tassariel turned right at random, and was rewarded by her choice of direction less than a quarter of the way around the circle. Arivana glanced towards her as she approached.

  “Tassariel!” the queen said, lips curling in obvious delight. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  The valynkar stopped three paces away and bowed. “Your Majesty.”

  “Oh, abyss take your formality,” Arivana said, and before another heartbeat passed, spread her arms and lunged forward.

  Cringing, Tassariel absorbed the impact, then tried to push the young woman away. “Please, I’m filthy! I couldn’t bear getting a stain on your dress. You don’t even want to know what I’m covered in!”

  “What’s a little mess going to hurt anything? I won’t let it get in the way. I need a good friend too much right now to care.”

  Tassariel felt the tension inside her release at the words. “Me too, I think,” she said, hugging the queen back with the same ferocity. “Me too.”

  They shared a sigh, then stepped apart, though Arivana grabbed hold of one hand. “I meant to visit you at some point, once I’d heard your domicile had come to roost. How have you been? I haven’t seen you since . . .”

  “Fasheshe,” Tassariel finished, having sensed a slice of hesitance in the queen’s eyes. Since before the god inside me turned everything upside down. “I’ve been . . . fine. I suppose. Busy. They needed help uprooting the domiciles, a task almost as difficult as convincing our high council it needed to be done. Then once the fighting started . . .” She shrugged, gesturing at her caretaker’s outfit.

  “Noble pursuits. It’s good to stay occupied, I know. Helps take your mind off things you can’t afford to linger on. Like having Elos inside you, only to witness his death firsthand.” The queen gave her hand a squeeze. “I can’t imagine what that must have felt like.”

  Tassariel squeezed back. “Probably like watching your closest confidant revealed as a betrayer.”

  Arivana flinched, glancing over through the nearest window.

  Tassariel followed her gaze.

  At the center of the round chamber—called a “theatre” by the servants she’d talked to—rested nothing but a thin pallet, upon which sat a single figure, hazy in the half-light. Wearing what looked like a grain sack, the woman bore feat
ures that, while too close for comfort, weren’t close enough to identify as human.

  Sem Aira Grusot. The one once known as Flumere.

  Arivana lifted a hand to the glass, resting it there as if she could reach through and touch what lay beyond. As if that might make a difference, somehow.

  “Elos,” Arivana said. “He knew right away, didn’t he? From the very first time he saw her.”

  “Yes,” Tassariel replied.

  A sad smile tugged at the corner of the queen’s lips, vanishing quickly. “That explains why you acted so strangely. Did he ever say why he waited so long to reveal her?”

  “Never explicitly. But he was always harping about the need to keep his intentions—his knowledge, even—as close to his chest as possible. I never really understood why, though. But, in the end, I came to trust his judgment. I don’t think things would have turned out well if I’d had my way.”

  “You think things turned out well?”

  “No . . . perhaps not. But it could have been worse. Much worse.”

  “Maybe.” Arivana lowered her hand from the window. “I find it strange that you called her a betrayer. To betray someone, you must first give them your loyalty. True loyalty. She deceived me, deceived us all, but we were merely targets to her. We weren’t ever really friends.”

  “Are you sure? It didn’t seem that way. Looking back, she went far beyond what was needed to maintain her cover. She helped you, Arivana, in ways that might even be interpreted as contrary to her mission. She cared.”

  The queen stared, unblinking into the theatre. “A credit to her expertise, perhaps. Nothing more.”

  Tassariel averted her gaze. She didn’t know what to say. Arivana seemed to need something from her: some assurance perhaps, or even just some empathy. Whatever it was, Tassariel didn’t think she could provide it.

  How can I fill another when I myself am empty?

  She’d come here to meet up with an old friend, only to find them both too changed, too damaged to give the other what they needed. Some small part of her might have hoped she’d find some service to provide, but she didn’t know how to offer, and Arivana appeared too distracted to think to ask.