“After all that took place here, I was expecting to be filled with dread upon returning.” She laughed in her gentle way. “Elos must have been thorough in his cleansing of my mind, for I feel nothing of the sort. I would almost say it’s—”
“Wonderful,” he said.
Smiling, she nodded, then leaned her head against his shoulder.
The expression she and many others wore mirrored exactly how Gilshamed felt. Looking down upon the shadowed crags and snowcapped peaks of the Godsreach Mountains tugged at threads of nostalgia that were woven through his most ancient and cherished memories. His people’s banishment from this land had weighed heavily upon every soul old enough to remember it. To not only return, but be welcomed with open arms was a blessing as pure as children’s laughter, and just as soothing. The fundamental failure of the valynkar, which had defined them for the last two thousand years, had at last come to an end.
And not even the circumstances that brought us here are able to detract from this moment. Yandumar, you may not have thought much of opening your borders to us, but by that simple act you have helped heal an entire people.
“Even that,” Lashriel said, pointing into the distance, “does not make me the least bit uneasy, though I still remember our war with the mierothi as if it were yesterday.”
Gilshamed peered where she had indicated, a little east and a few dozen leagues farther inland. Though illuminated by the evening sun, Vashodia’s ark, as it had come to be called, still seemed darker than the shadowed land beneath it. A land, he realized as he studied it more closely, with which he was familiar.
A piece of the ark was in the process of detaching itself: a slim spire descending from the massive vessel’s very center. It seemed appropriate, then, that a new voltensus would come to rest where once had stood another.
The voltensus that he had destroyed.
He did not think he would change what he had done—even knowing Vashodia was twitching at his strings back then—but he still was not sure if it had been the right thing to do. No matter how pure each side could claim their cause to be, war always signaled a failure of some kind. Whether of decency or diplomacy, it mattered little; diluting conflict to the swing of a sword always seemed to lessen those involved.
This war with the ruvak, he knew, was in no way unique.
Everything circles, around and around again.
When are we ever going to learn?
“Gil?”
Gilshamed looked down at Lashriel, beset by the concern carved into her features. As always, he’d let his guard down around her, letting everything inside show on his face without restraint. “I am well, Lash. There is no need for alarm.”
“You are upset by something, though. Do not hide from me what troubles you. You may think me gentle, but I need not be spared from your burdens. In sharing them, our love only grows stronger.”
He smiled down at her. “You always manage to remind me, somehow, that we are all capable of being so much better than we are.”
“And you’re wondering why we so often fail to reach that higher standard?”
Gilshamed shook his head. “I’m only wondering why it has taken this long for everything to shatter so completely.”
“Who is to say it has not already?”
He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, if the latest tales are to be believed, Ruul and Elos brought us here from another world. That, to me, seems an act of desperation. Could they not have been fleeing some catastrophe?”
“I . . . suppose.” He sighed. “But that does not give me any comfort. Everywhere I look throughout history, I see patterns of destruction repeating without end. Must they always culminate in such utter ruin? Are we ever going to get it right?”
She leaned closer then, circling her arms around him, and said nothing as she studied the quickly darkening terrain. In doing so, she reminded him with her presence that so long as he kept her close, and held himself open to her, the weight pressing down on his soul seemed just a little bit easier to bear.
Tassariel brushed snow from the branches, then reached down into the trap she’d set the evening before, smiling as her fingers came in contact with fur. Grabbing hold of the limp body, she wrenched it free and held it up before her.
“Looks like we’re having hare for breakfast. Again.”
She hadn’t doubted it would be there. In a land empty of all human occupation, game was always plentiful.
As she drew her knife and began dressing the carcass, however, the upturned curl of her lips persisted. True, they’d been eating the same stringy meat for weeks now, but the difference this time was that she’d caught the thing herself, the snare crafted and set by her hand alone. Draevenus trusted her enough by now that he hadn’t even bothered to check her work. Though she’d failed to learn the first thing he’d tried to teach her, there were other skills besides murder to pass on. And she’d proven herself a most able student.
They had to find some way keep themselves occupied, after all. When they weren’t running for their lives, things were—for the most part—actually quite boring.
She wiped blood from her hands then gathered up the skin and cuts of meat, leaving the rest for the scavengers as she retraced her steps. In two marks she ducked through the screen of branches covering the entrance to their shelter, a shallow nook under an outcropping. Draevenus waited inside, nursing a fire kept small enough and pure enough that only someone wandering within fifty paces would notice it.
“Hare again, is it?” he said, echoing her earlier words. “It’s a good thing they breed so quickly, or I’d worry about our impact on their population.”
Stepping over to him, she dropped the bundle of meat in his lap. “It’s not their population we should be concerned with.”
Draevenus clenched his jaw, silent for three long breaths before responding. “We’re doing everything we can.”
“Not everything.”
“Abyss beyond, Tass! For the last time, I will not leave you behind.”
“But you could move so much faster on your own,” she insisted. “These wings of mine stand out, drawing ruvak like a beacon, whereas yours are quite literally made to keep you hidden. If you weren’t stuck walking with me, you’d probably be there by now.”
Sighing, he began picking out slabs of flesh and fitting them to skewers, which he then propped up over the dancing flames. “I’ve heard all the arguments before, and I won’t change my mind. It’s too dangerous to go alone.”
“Too dangerous for you? Or for me?”
“For both of us. What can either of us do on our own against even the smallest ruvak skyship?”
“We could run. Just like we’ve been doing for weeks.”
“Fine. But who’s going to guard our backs at night?”
“Neither of us sleep well anyway. No one is going to sneak up unknowing.”
Grumbling under his breath, Draevenus flipped the meat over. Grease dripped and sizzled on the coal, filling the shelter with a savory, if now too-familiar aroma. “There are still too many perils in the wilderness, especially for someone—”
“I am not incapable of surviving on my own. Not anymore. When was the last time you had to find clean water on your own? Or forage for edible plants? Or scout out shelter? Or even—” she gestured sharply at the fire “—set a trap for our breakfast. I can do everything you’ve taught me without thinking, Draevenus. Nothing about being alone scares me anymore.”
Nothing pertaining to my safety, anyway.
Tassariel turned from him and knelt by her pack, tying the fresh skin to four others they’d acquired and treated in recent days. She couldn’t look at him right now. Her attempt to approach the problem with logic would run afoul if she even so much as looked into his eyes. He might have been a stone-faced killer once, but now, it seemed, he couldn’t keep the smallest thing he felt from showing up in his features.
The problem, she knew, was that he cared too much about her.
So much so that he was placing her, quite literally, above everyone else in the world. As much as she wanted to cling to that feeling of being wanted, and to bask in the warmth that came with such attentions, there was too much at stake.
And I’m not yet jaded enough with this world to welcome its end.
“Perhaps,” she ventured softly, “we could try commune again?”
Draevenus grunted. “Itching for another skirmish, are we? You do remember what happened last time.”
“Yes, but that was weeks and leagues ago. And before the ruvak swarmed us, I swear I felt something a little bit different than our previous attempts. As if their grip on commune was starting to slip.”
“I felt nothing like that.”
Tassariel shrugged. “Perhaps they’re more concerned with strangling the dark than the light. Vashodia and Jasside, after all, are the two most powerful beings alive. It makes sense that the ruvak would spend more effort opposing them.”
“Maybe.” Draevenus plucked the finished skewers from the flames, handing half to her, then bit into a sliver of meat.
Sitting opposite the fire from him, she did the same. They both chewed in silence for a time. As much as she enjoyed having a full stomach, the meat itself went down almost without registering to her senses. Only after the final scrap was in their bellies, and every last drop of grease had been licked from their fingers, did Draevenus lift his gaze to her once more.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll give it another try.”
Tassariel nodded, breathing deep to settle her nerves. To be honest, she wasn’t sure if she was more excited for possible good news, or more worried about another failure. But after so long walking empty, quiet lands, either was a change she would welcome.
After they’d both finished securing everything loose back in their packs, in the likely event that they had to run on short notice, they settled down on the ground, legs crossed and backs resting against each other.
“You should go first,” Draevenus said. “If you’re right about their hold slipping, then you’re right about their focus on dark. If we’re going to find a way through, it will be light that leads the way.”
“Thank you for showing such confidence in me.”
“Thank you for earning it.”
Tassariel energized. Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she plunged into commune.
A familiar dark sky surrounded her untethered conscience. More familiar, in fact, than it had been in some time. The swirling, every-color clouds that had beset every recent visit were, if not gone, then faded, diminished to the point that they were no longer the dominating feature of this realm.
It wasn’t victory outright, but it was progress.
She cast her gaze in the direction of the colony, eager to see if any stars were visible. What she saw, however, only confused her.
While there was light of a sort, it was wrong in too many ways. It was dim and indistinct, less like individual points than it was like a reflection in murky waters. And whatever it was did not reside at the colony. The direction was right, but the distance was much too vast. It was almost as if . . .
Popping out of commune, Tassariel jumped to her feet.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Draevenus asked, rising himself and putting his hands on two dagger hilts.
“I have good news and bad news,” she replied. “Which do you want to hear first?”
Draevenus groaned. “The bad, I guess.”
“We won’t be joining our allies at the colony.”
“But why? What happened to them? What did you see?”
“The good,” she said, ignoring his queries, and failing to hide her smile, “is that you get to take me to see your home.”
Chapter 20
It was strange and bittersweet to see Mecrithos from above. For Yandumar, it was a city filled with too many memories, few of which were good. Victory over Rekaj, his marriage and ascension to the throne, and all the reforms he’d enacted to try to make the empire a better place, were all shadowed by losses that had stolen his joy. Yet for all that, he had always viewed it as a magnificent city, a feat of architectural and civic brilliance that, if not as polished or sparkling as some other places in the world, still impressed through sheer scope and audacity.
From this high in the air, however, all notions of greatness vanished. It seemed but a child’s maze hastily formed in the dirt by an unsteady finger. When viewed in relation to the mountain upon which it sat, not to mention the vast countryside around it, Mecrithos appeared insignificant. But even though it seemed new and unknown, the truth was, he still felt he was intimately acquainted with the city. Distance didn’t change what he knew.
The same, unfortunately, could not be said about the ruvak.
What had been bothering him, he realized—indeed, what had been clawing at his mind ever since the city he called home first came into view—was how little they actually knew about the ruvak. When he’d declared war against Rekaj’s regime, he’d had thorough knowledge of the empire’s inner workings, knowing not only the evils they committed, but the motivations behind every act of cruelty. The blood he’d shed in that revolution, while undeniably tragic, he still considered just.
He had no such comprehension of their current enemy. While protecting the innocent from violent aggression could never be considered wrong, the fact that he could make no sense of ruvak purpose filled him with a futile kind of madness. It was hard to feel justified when he could see no point to the bloodshed, to the countless lives lost on both sides of the conflict.
War always signaled a breakdown in reason. War without meaning was the very essence of insanity.
“We’re almost there, Emperor.”
Yandumar broke from his study of the land below, glancing over at Orbrahn. “No ‘old man’ this time?”
Orbrahn shrugged. “Takes a special kind of caring to be as insubordinate as I am. That and the wine. This is the me you get when I’ve run out of both.”
“I can solve one of your problems just as soon as we reach the palace. As for the other? Well, I can’t fault you for the lack, but you’ll have to find it again in your own way and time.” Yandumar sighed. “As will the rest of us.”
He stepped to the opposite edge of his command ship and watched as it swept low near the lip of Goratismyr Domicile. A crowd had gathered there, though a small one. As much as he would like to address every refugee at once, there was simply no feasible way to do so. He’d have to rely on the rulers gathered below to pass on the word to their people.
What was left of them, anyway.
As soon as he felt Orbrahn’s spell take effect, amplifying his voice, Yandumar cleared his throat and began.
“Welcome to my empire,” he said. “Strange as it may be to say, this is the safest place in the world, at the moment. I’d like to say I had hoped to greet you under better circumstances, but then I’d be lying. I’m not much of a diplomat, and the idea of sitting down to dinner with foreign dignitaries to discuss trade agreements and treaties and whatnot . . . well, if the abyss came in personalized flavors, that’s what mine would taste like.
“But nevermind all that. For the time being, we’re under no threat of attack from the ruvak. The Shelf guards us from the sea, and the voltensi guard us from the sky. I have ships patrolling both in any case, which should give us fair warning should our good friends from the void make any attempt to invade. Breathe, all of you. As deeply as you can, for as long as you can. Unfortunately, I don’t know how long that will actually be.
“But for now, we do have peace, and we must make the most of it. Your people are all being settled in temporary towns my citizens have been working hard on building for the last few months. It will be crowded, I’m sure, and anything even resembling luxury will be in dreadfully short supply. But at least they’ll all be safe, and sheltered, and fed.
“As for you, rulers and generals and crucial figures in our campaign against annihilation, I open this entire continent fo
r your use, and issue this one command. Go! Disperse and enjoy yourselves. Explore whatever suits your fancy and take time to find yourself again, however that may be achieved. This war has tested us, stretching us beyond what we thought was possible. I’m sure we all need an opportunity to just . . . relax.”
Sensing nothing but relieved eagerness from the crowd, Yandumar turned away from them, nodding to Orbrahn. The boy lowered his hand, releasing his spell.
“Well, that’s over with,” Yandumar said. “Let’s get on to the palace. You’ll be needing your wine, and I’ll be needing—”
“A proper bed?” Orbrahn said, lifting one eyebrow.
Yandumar grunted, then smiled as he looked down and watched a single, small skyship lifting up from the city. “That . . . and a certain someone to share it with.”
In another mark, the tiny vessel had reached his own and disgorged its small flock of passengers. Two Imperial Guard stepped off first, followed by Derthon, who looked surprisingly calm for someone taking their first trip on a flying contraption. Then again, not much could rattle him. Even if Yandumar could see the face lying beneath the wrapped bandages, he was sure its expression wouldn’t change much whether the man was standing still at guard for half a day, or cutting foes in two with the curved blade strapped at his waist.
Following Derthon came a pair of women who, while similar in their ability with sharp objects, were just as different in most other ways.
“She didn’t want to wait,” Ilyem said to him, in what might have been apologetic fashion. He’d sent her ahead to deliver news in person and let the palace know to prepare for his arrival.
The other woman, as always, had her own plans.
“Where is she?” Slick Ren demanded, planting fists on her hips.
She might not have been as slender as when they’d first met—palace living was a far softer business than running a criminal enterprise, after all—and the grey in her hair had almost overtaken the red, but Yandumar couldn’t recall a more welcome sight.
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