The Light That Binds

by Nathan Garrison

  “You don’t give them a say?”

  Arivana shrugged. “I would . . . if they had any desire to.”

  “You’re telling me they’re perfectly happy leaving all major decisions regarding the lives of them and their people . . . to you?”

  “Not to me. To Panisahldron.”

  Chase furrowed his brow, as if trying to draw conclusions from her mess of clues. After a moment, he nodded. “I think I’m starting to see what you’re getting at,” he said. “They’ve grown dependent.”

  “Addicted would probably be a better word to describe them. For far too long my nation has been the exclusive supplier of their luxuries, all things fine and beautiful, the manufacture and export of which we’ve turned into an art. We convinced them that such things were a need and not a want, molding that desire into a drug, and thus shaping their cultures more thoroughly than they ever could themselves. We’ve been doing this for centuries. Is it any surprise it’s taking so long to wean them?”

  “I . . . see your point.”

  “I thought you might. But acknowledging the problem is only the first step. In order to begin healing the rifts between us, to give everyone a reason to look to the future with something other than futility . . . it’s my hope that you might help me take the next.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I have a proposal for you that I wouldn’t dare ask of anyone else. I’m hoping you’ll keep an open mind. Sceptre, in my experience, isn’t afraid to do things differently than the rest.”

  “No,” Chase said, smiling, “we are not.”

  Jasside had just finished pouring the tea when the door opened and a blur of darkness swept in from open sky.

  “Honey?” she asked.

  Vashodia’s eyes burned like embers from deep within her cowl. “I was wondering who had pierced my wards.”

  “Were you? Really? Who else could have done it without dying in any number of painful ways. That trap to turn someone into a block of ice was particularly inventive.”

  “So glad to see you still recognize greatness when you see it.”

  “I learned from the best.”

  Vashodia sighed, then slipped out of her cloak and hung it from a hook jutting out of the wall. Jasside was surprised to see spatters of mud marring the dark fabric. She hadn’t known her old mistress to do the dirty things herself.

  As the mierothi sauntered over and sat in the seat opposite her—stirring globs of honey into the cup nearest her on the table between them—Jasside gave the chamber an obvious visual appraisal.

  “Nice place you’ve made for yourself,” she said.

  “But not, I take it, what you were expecting?”

  Jasside smiled. “Making your own private dwelling float above the voltensus—that I expected. Just as I expected these fine furnishings—the silk sheets on your bed, the bath fitted with constructs to control flow and temperature of the water, the floor-to-ceiling windows that allow you to look down upon the rest of us without allowing anyone else to see in, and the kitchen filled with all manner of devices whose use I can only guess at. What I didn’t expect was for this place to feel so cozy. So . . . cheerful.”

  “Would you prefer I craft my lair in a swamp or a cave or some decrepit tower? Perhaps I should fill it with the skulls of my victims? Paint the walls with blood? Make guests enter by way of torture chambers, wander through mazes inhabited by shadow beasts, and crawl past pits that seem to fall through the heart of the world?”

  Jasside brought the cup up to her lips, grinning through the steam. “You’ve been reading too many children’s stories.”

  Vashodia mimicked her movements, taking a dainty sip of her tea, though her smile held no real humor. “What do you want, Jasside?”

  “What I want is to see how you are doing.”

  “Checking up on me, are you? Did you forget about the last time we met in private?”

  “Just because I’m no longer your apprentice doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring about you.”

  “How touching.”

  “I’m serious. It can’t be easy being in your position. Taking on the world’s problems as your own personal burden is difficult enough. I can’t imagine trying to do it without any friends.”

  “I have friends enough.”

  “Who? Feralt and his accomplices?”

  Vashodia’s eyes flashed dangerously.

  Jasside took another sip of tea to hide the joy on her face, even though a part of her was slightly ashamed of it. Not enough to banish it, however.

  After all, how often do I get the chance to surprise you?

  “I’m not sure,” Jasside continued, “if you can count cronies as friends.”

  “Perhaps not. But what makes you think I need friends in the first place?”

  “Everyone needs someone in their life who cares about them. With Draevenus away, and Angla understandably occupied, I’m all you’ve got left. And, if you recall, we are still technically family.”

  Vashodia shrugged. “A few dozen daeloth can make a similar claim. Should I waste my time developing personal relationships with each of them?”

  Jasside winced. She’d forgotten about the daeloth. Over a year ago, at Jasside’s own behest, they’d all ceased using their last names—names derived from their unwilling mierothi mothers. She hadn’t thought about how many other Anglascos there might be.

  “I . . . don’t know,” Jasside said. “Perhaps after time has been given a chance to heal those wounds.”

  Vashodia scoffed. “The only thing time ever brings for certain is death.”

  “Except to you, you mean.”

  Vashodia giggled.

  Jasside shook her head, leaning forward to set her cup on the table. “Look, none of that pertains to why I’m here. If you need anything—anything at all—please don’t hesitate to ask. And please don’t turn me away when I’m only trying to help.”

  The mierothi drained her cup, then, gathering a swirl of power between her clawed fingers, erased it from existence. “Thank you for the tea. You may go now.”

  Sighing, Jasside rose from her chair. She knew quite well when Vashodia had run out of civility for the day. She marched past, pausing in the doorway.

  “One question before I go.”

  Vashodia, hidden now by the high back of her chair, said nothing.

  Jasside continued anyway. “What have you been doing lately? I’ve heard reports that say you’ve been seen standing still for tolls every day, at various points around the colony. I’ve felt the energy you’ve been wielding. Care to share whatever it is you’re trying to achieve?”

  Silence.

  I don’t know why I even thought she’d answer.

  Hands on the door frame, she peered at the city taking shape beneath her. The voltensus was directly below, encircled by the houses and barracks that were part of the original colony. But beyond them, in ever expanding rings, more and more dwellings were springing up due to her labors. Though none were particularly elegant, she’d become practiced enough to create three a day.

  She lifted her eyes past them, however, to a vast field milling with figures that, at this distance, appeared merely a smear. Energizing, she focus in on the spot, then made the dash. Her vision blurred as swirling darkness bent reality around her. She landed on the field’s near edge with a rush of wind.

  Mevon turned from his study of the drilling soldiers. The smile he gave her almost made her forget about Vashodia altogether.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  So much for forgetting about her.

  “Not as good as I hoped,” she answered. “But about how I expected.”

  He nodded consolingly, then stepped close and raised his arms out wide. As always, he hesitated just out of reach, letting her initiate contact.

  As if I could love you any more.

  Bracing herself, she curled up her arms and leaned into him. Energy siphoned away, but she didn’t mind. She didn’t even gasp anymore. The loss of
her power took with it the loss of responsibility. It was a comforting illusion, anyway.

  Mevon wrapped his huge arms around her, applying just the right amount of pressure. He’d been too gentle at first, but after a little instructing, and assurances that she was not, in fact, as fragile as a flower, he’d managed to find the sweet spot.

  The combined effects—both magical and mundane—made her feel as if all would be right with the world.

  She only wished she felt that way about Vashodia.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think,” Mevon said, his chin brushing the top of her head as he spoke.

  “You’re right. It was probably worse.”

  Mevon chuckled, his chiseled chest rumbling with the sound.

  “I mean it,” Jasside continued. “You don’t know her like I do.”

  “No. But I do know what it is be isolated. To feel alone. She may never admit it to you, and certainly not to herself, but I’m sure she appreciated your efforts to connect with her.”

  “An effort most likely wasted.” Jasside sighed, craning her neck to meet his eyes. “I made a promise to myself that I would touch her soul, that I would reach the frail light within it, surrounded by so much darkness, and help it shine. It feels, every day, like I’ve failed.”

  Mevon shook his head, brushing one hand down her cheek. “You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit. After all, you managed to touch my soul. And I’ve known few who could have matched the darkness it once held.”

  Jasside smiled. “You always know the right thing to say to me.”

  “Do I? I’m just trying to tell the truth as I see it. Isn’t honesty our agreed upon policy?”

  “It is.” Jasside leaned her head against him once more. “It is indeed.”

  As she nestled in almost complete contentment, she saw out of the corner of her eyes four figures walking together: Queen Arivana and her advisor Claris, along with the Harkun brothers. Unfortunately, the sight of them also reminded her of her responsibilities, which even Mevon’s touch couldn’t hold at bay forever.

  Pushing away gently, she sighed. “I’d better get back to work. More than three-quarters of the refugees are still living in tents, after all.”

  “Aye,” he said, letting her go with obvious reluctance. “And I’d better get back to my trainees before they start killing each other for real!”

  Tassariel stared into the crackling flames, which did little to warm her. The ground was too damp, the breeze too insistent, and her padded stump of a seat was too far away from the fire. Dawn was rolling in like a whisper, turning the canopy of tree branches above, most naked but for a few stubborn leaves, into a skein of shadows standing stark against the sky. The sun had yet to add any of its heat to the day.

  But none of that had anything to do with why she felt so cold.

  Two old women, grey hair held in twin buns by painted sticks, tended the fire, a scene played out at nearly thirty other stone-lined pits. One ladled rice porridge into bowls, a thin gruel filled with mushy vegetables Tassariel couldn’t identify, while the other fried fish filets on a large sheet of metal suspended over the flames, scooping the—in Tassariel’s opinion—over-salted and undercooked meat onto plates.

  Those waiting in line took one of each, bowing and murmuring their thanks to the old women, then moved off to sit and eat and chat amongst themselves. As she’d seen when first landing on this island, they came in every shape and size: young to old, female and male, all bearing the pale, narrow faces characteristic of the Yusanese. But only the young women with babes in shoulder-bound slings had the dark, straight hair of pure natives. The rest all sported various shades of blue atop their heads.

  Family, she thought. My half brothers and half sisters. Yet, in the five days I’ve been here, none of them have spoken a single word to me. What did you tell them of me, Father? What lies have you spread?

  Her vision slowly fell from the flames, coming to rest on the moist ground between her boots. She hadn’t known what to expect when she’d finally met the man who’d abandoned her before memory had even taken hold. She should have, though. He’d been avoiding her for the last ninety years. What reason did she have to think the bastard would stop now?

  Thoughts turning sour, she berated herself for dwelling on it. A pointless use of time that did more harm to her than good. But she knew she couldn’t put aside her feelings towards her father much longer. Valynkar were renowned for their delays in dealing with anything the least bit unpleasant. Pushing off resolution for centuries was the norm; for millennia, not unheard-of. When patience is preached like the greatest mark of nobility, few feel the need to hasten confrontation. It was, perhaps, the greatest fault of her kind.

  Leave it to my kin to turn a virtue into a vice.

  Even now, with her father at last in arm’s reach, and the ruvak threatening to end everything, she felt that pull, that small voice that said to deal with it later, to get only what information she needed and be on her way. Another voice, which seemed smaller still, told her that this would undoubtedly be her last chance. She did not yet know which one she was going to heed.

  A murmur began some ways off, yet grew nearer and louder rapidly: hissing whispers she’d come to know well. If the inhabitants of this island looked on her with scorn and self-righteous pity, they looked on Draevenus with unbridled hostility. Her father had fought in the War of Rising Night. The mierothi might look different these days, but she was sure no one here would consider them a friend. Tassariel was surprised they had let her companion stay at all. More surprised that no blood had yet been shed.

  Draevenus at last came into view, chased by glares as he threaded around the crowds at each fire. He didn’t seem the least bit affected by his treatment. In fact, he was . . . smiling.

  Please tell me you’ve brought good news at last.

  “Good morning,” he said through a yawn, sitting next to her. “I hope I didn’t sleep so late I missed breakfast.”

  Tassariel glanced towards the fire pit. Just outside the circle of stones sat two plates and two bowls, which were being pointedly ignored by the two old women. The first day they’d only set out one, and had refused to give anything to Draevenus. Tassariel had taken her portion and given it to him, making him eat every bite despite his objections, and despite the old women’s contentious stares. After that, they’d started leaving two.

  She rose and retrieved their meals, then handed one to him and sat back down. “So,” she said between her first and second bites, “how did you sleep?”

  “Better,” he said. “Best rest I’ve had since we got here.”

  “Good,” she replied, struggling to keep her face impassive.

  She knew very well he hadn’t slept much at all.

  Her father had not made his whereabouts known, and all civil efforts to find out had been blunted. Draevenus had sneaked out of his tent in the dead of night in order to track the man down. The statement about his sleep was prearranged code between them: he had a location.

  Now came the tricky part.

  They made small talk for the next ten marks, using wide gestures to punctuate their words. Between them, when they were fairly certain no one was looking too closely, the real conversation took place in the form of hand language. She’d learned enough of it in their time together to glean directions, one word at a time.

  She finished her meal, then excused herself to freshen up, marching east towards the nearby stream, which the women used for bathing. When she got there, it was occupied, so she turned her back and waited for it to clear. They knew about her shyness. No one would disturb her while she was there.

  As the other women gathered their things and began returning to the camp, Tassariel removed her cloak and hung it from a nearby tree. She even bent down and began pretending to unlace her boots—at least until they were out of sight. Once she was sure they were gone, she bolted off into the woods.

  Following Draevenus’s directions, she crossed one gully, then foll
owed the edge of a draw filled with bracken for half a league. At the two trees fallen against each other, she turned to her left and marched directly into the sun, which was now cresting the treetops. She came to a shallow ridge, slid down, then took three hundred steps towards the mountain peak at the island’s heart.

  As her companion had promised, the land dipped into a bowl, and there at the bottom rested a small, rocky pool enclosed by looming evergreens.

  Through the leaves, she could just make out several figures in and near the water.

  Her heart stammered.

  She took several measured breaths in an attempt to calm herself. It did no good.

  Neither will delaying, but we don’t have any other choice. Just go down there and do what needs to be done.

  Still feeling wholly unprepared, Tassariel shuffled down the hill and stepped through the last line of trees. Six of the seven figures present turned towards her in alarm.

  Four women stood on the edge of the pool, respectively holding a towel, a robe, clean clothes, and a tray with fruit and wine. Two more were neck deep in the water, each gripping washing cloths, whose scented oils she could smell from here.

  Between these last two, back turned and only visible from his shoulders up, stood her father.

  He raised one hand, flicking it as if swatting away a pest; a gesture clearly indicating that he wanted her gone.

  In an eerie, simultaneous motion, the four nearest women set down their bundles.

  Then jumped into a fighting posture.

  Tassariel tensed, instinct taking hold. Her pulse quickened as she scanned her targets, their balance and speed, how well they moved in relation to each other, predicting both the martial school to which their stances belonged and her chances of victory for the fight to come.

  Four against one. They look skilled enough, but they’re no masters, and they have no obvious physical advantage, nor weapons or sorcery to bolster themselves. I could win this fight blindfolded.

  On the cusp of energizing and entering her own fighting pose, she instead stopped herself, shaking her head.

  “My companion and I crossed almost two thousand leagues of enemy-held territory, Father,” she said. “And we made our presence felt. Though it would weigh little on my conscience, I’ve no desire to cause harm to your . . . women.”