The Light That Binds

by Nathan Garrison

  “All taken care of,” Daye said, straightening his tunic as he returned to his chair. “Let’s hope Draevenus is done testing this vessel’s limits.”

  Arivana forced a smile to her lips, determined to escape the dismal thoughts swirling around her head. For the plan to work everyone needed to do their part to perfection, and much of her task—as simple as it seemed in the grand scheme of things—required her to walk a knife’s edge with every word and gesture, a balancing act that had already been going on for some time. Though she felt confident in her ability to pull it off, the strain of maintaining her act had begun to wear on her. Her only consolation was that the end was finally in sight.

  And abyss take me if I’ll be the reason we fail.

  Lifting the pitcher, Arivana filled the three new cups with equal measures of wine, then handed two to her companions. She brought the last to her lips and drank deeply enough to feign an air of relaxation without seeming too eager. The smile she swept towards Sem Aira came more easily this time.

  “Drink up, Sem,” Arivana said, flicking her hand casually toward the untouched cup. “I’d hate for any more of this fine vintage to go to waste.”

  “Fine vintage?” Daye said. “Is that what you call it? Give me a warm mug of Sceptrine ale any day over this swill.”

  “Oh really? I seem to recall you finishing off each of the last three—no, four bottles I opened. That doesn’t seem to me the actions of a man barely tolerating his drink.”

  “You can’t blame me for taking what enjoyment I can under less than ideal circumstances. It’s not as if we could swing by the great breweries of Taosin or San Khet and fill the hold with the best ale on the planet.”

  “Why not?”

  Daye shrugged. “Too far out of the way.”

  Arivana laughed, reaching out to give her husband a playful shove. It wasn’t the best joke in the world, but humor was in such short supply these days any attempt at it seemed worthy of celebrating. Besides, it had accomplished its intended effect. Out of the corner of her eye, Arivana caught a twitch at the corner of Sem Aira’s mouth as the ruvak finally took hold of her wine.

  “I suppose it is,” Arivana said. “I do hope I’ll get the chance to try it someday.”

  “I thought you hated ale?” Daye said.

  “Maybe that’s because I haven’t yet had yours.”

  “Ah. Well, if anything can change your mind, that first taste will certainly do the trick. If not, the second will.”

  “I think you’re underestimating the impact of first impressions.”

  “Oh, I won’t dispute their importance. But sometimes, the best things in life are the things that take some getting used to. In my experience, you’ll never find a greater champion for a cause than one who initially stood against it, only to come around after realizing what they were missing.”

  “Now I think you’re overestimating the seriousness of alcohol.” Arivana paused to take another deep pull on her drink, then turned to Sem Aira. “What about you? Do you prefer wine or ale? Or perhaps something else? I’m sure you’ve had all kinds of drink we’ve never heard of, and which most humans would find unpalatable.”

  The way the woman’s expression changed sent a swell of hope throughout Arivana. It became the face of someone who had waited a long time for their chance to speak while knowing they had something meaningful to say.

  “Well,” Sem Aira began, “there is this one liquor I used to favor. It’s fermented from the fungus that grows on the . . .”

  She trailed off, dropping her head as she shrank into herself once more.

  The hope, newly arisen within Arivana, crumbled into dust.

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” Sem Aira said. “I just don’t understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “How the two of you can act so comfortable around one another, let alone around me. Not that long ago your nations were slaughtering each other without mercy or remorse, yet you sit here talking as if it never happened, as if all that pain and hate has already been forgotten. And my people? They view your entire species as little better than the insects we feast upon, yet you speak to me as though I were some old, long absent friend. None of this makes any sense!”

  Arivana leaned back in her chair, exhaling as she reached out a hand towards Daye, who grasped it with all the firm tenderness she’d grown to both want and need. “I don’t expect it to. Not all of it. Not yet. All I can really explain is that Daye and the people of Sceptre have forgiven me and my countrymen. Though we did nothing to deserve it, they understand what too few do—that hatred and revenge may feel natural, but they only cause more damage in the long run, and most of it to those who hold it in their hearts.

  “They form the easy path to take when one has been wronged, the path of destruction so often masked as one of justice or righteous recompense. To achieve true healing, however, requires you to walk a most unnatural road, one far more difficult to tread. But, in my admittedly short experience, I’ve found that the things truly worth doing are the ones that test you along the way. It’s those very trials that let you know you’re heading in the right direction.”

  Sem Aira peered at Arivana with narrowed eyes, sucking air in through her vertical nostril slits like someone on the verge of erupting. After a long, silent moment, the ruvak set down her cup and pushed it away. Arivana could tell that the woman knew the truth: that time was running out for them all.

  “Where are you taking me, anyway?” Sem Aira asked.

  Arivana glanced to Daye, who met her regard with a nod. She turned back to her former handmaiden. “Home.”

  Chapter 23

  Yandumar jerked awake as a hand fell on his shoulder.

  “Wasn’t sleeping,” he said, rubbing his fists into his eye sockets as he leaned forward in his chair.

  “Your slurred words suggest otherwise.”

  Twisting his neck, which set off a brief struggle with coughing, Yandumar cast a baleful eye on Gilshamed. “Just the cold, old friend, I swear. My lips are half-frozen.”

  “I could do something about that, you know.”

  Yandumar shrugged. “The soldiers fighting below don’t have that luxury. Until this is over, neither will I.”

  “It looks unlikely to end anytime soon.” Gilshamed smiled. “But if it does—”

  “Then I’ll be cold until I die.”

  “As will we all.”

  Yandumar stood, stretching as far as he was able before joints started popping with pain, then pulled his coats closer about him. He glanced briefly out past the rim of his skyship. It was night, which meant the sites of active battle, with their steady if slim exchanges of sorcery and power-infused weapons, were visible to the naked eye. A quick count revealed roughly two score such places. No big surprise either way.

  “Have you heard any news?” Yandumar asked.

  Gilshamed shook his head. “I was about to ask the same of you.”

  Sighing, Yandumar nodded, then raised an eyebrow. “To the table?”

  The valynkar lifted a hand behind them, gesturing towards the center of the vessel’s main deck, which was covered in a loose patchwork of canvas faintly resembling a tent. “After you.”

  “How kind,” Yandumar replied, coughing again as he lurched into motion. “I look an abyss-taken fool trying to keep up with your pace. I ain’t as young as I used to be.”

  “Trust me, old friend,” Gilshamed said, falling into step beside and slightly behind him, “with all that has happened, even I am starting to feel my years.”

  “Bah! What are you now? Three thousand? Four? Why, you’re barely middle-aged for a valynkar. You don’t get to start grumbling until those absurdly golden strands on your head start looking like a slightly less precious metal.”

  “If we make it through this alive, something tells me I’ll get the opportunity to complain.”

  That, old friend, is one very big “if.”

  They pushed through what constituted an entrance toge
ther, and Yandumar was immediately blinded by the light blazing from every possible angle. It took a good mark of blinking until he could see clearly again. Half a dozen figures stood around a low, broad table, which glowed with pulsing, sorcerous light.

  It had taken all of two days until his messenger corps—all casters too young to take part in the fighting directly—had tired of his constant questions. Clever things that they were, they had devised a system that would constantly feed him and his subordinate commanders with all the information they could ever require, all without need for a word to pass between them. Thus, the table danced with conjured images of light and shadow, depicting up-to-the-beat details about troop placement and combat status, casualties, supplies, enemy activity, and a dozen other things. He’d even set a young boy to keeping a scrolling list of all the dead, but that lasted less than half a week; the list quickly became too unfathomably long for a single soul to manage, and he couldn’t spare any more to help.

  So many fallen, and we can’t even be bothered to remember their names.

  Yandumar wasn’t sure why that bothered him so deeply. After all, there would soon be no one left to do the remembering.

  No one human, anyway.

  He and Gilshamed stepped up to the table and set to examining the situation. The thin, jagged line of human defenders—represented by spectral blue lights—had been pushed several hundred leagues northward, onto the border between the tundra plains and the mountains that spanned the breadth of the empire’s southern territory. The two fronts had become one as individual units dug in, fought, retreated, or simply licked their wounds.

  The angry, red blob that stood for the enemy occupied all the rest of the displayed space.

  As if numbers alone and the salvaged human skyships weren’t enough of an advantage, the ruvak had even more surprises in store. Wrath-bows and shock-lances by the thousands, and nearly a hundred war engines, had shown up on the front lines on the third day of fighting, turning the tide in several key engagements. They’d been running for their lives ever since.

  “So,” Yandumar said after his all-too-brief study of the strategic situation, “it’s going about as well as can be expected.”

  “Yes,” Gilshamed said, shaking his head. “How soon until they begin threatening your population?”

  “All the towns and villages along the mountains have been evacuated, and it’s another two-day march beyond the passes to the nearest city. I’d empty them too, but . . .” Yandumar shrugged.

  “If the ruvak break through,” Gilshamed said, unnecessarily completing the thought, “there will be no place left to find refuge.”

  Yandumar closed his eyes. “Aye.”

  Every breath in the room stopped as one. After a moment, he heard the first sorrowful whimper.

  He leaned close to his companion, lowering his voice. “Hope is a funny thing. It can lift souls to greatness not otherwise possible, but it’s so damned fragile. No need to be swinging hammers at it.”

  Gilshamed dropped his head. “My apologies, old friend.”

  “Forget it. No, seriously, put it out of your mind completely. We’ve enough things to worry about to get hung up on little mistakes.”

  “I know. Still I—”

  “Still nothing. We do the best we can, but perfection is impossible even in ideal circumstances. With the pressure we’re under? Ha! I’m surprised I haven’t mistaken you for Slick Ren yet!”

  “Is my touch so gentle to be perceived as a woman’s?”

  Yandumar grunted. “Not in the least. Of course, that’s exactly where the confusion comes from!”

  Gilshamed smirked. “Well, the next time I see your wife, I will be sure to tell her how little you think of her femininity.”

  “Much obliged, old friend. Much obliged.” He clapped Gilshamed on the shoulder, almost forgetting for the moment all that was at stake.

  Almost.

  “Speaking of family,” he said after a moment, “have you heard anything from our secondary front?”

  “I was in contact with Tassariel this morning. All she told me was that she thought they were getting close.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Gilshamed said, shaking his head. “They could be arriving as we speak, or still days away. By necessity, I allow her to initiate contact. I wish I could tell you more.”

  “It’s all right. They ain’t dead yet. Until they are—” he swept an arm over the table “—it looks like we still have work to do.”

  Draevenus saw it first. He’d been expecting it.

  There’d been something wrong about his time in Yusan. Something so subtle only a thorough examination of his memories had revealed it. It was a good thing so many moments had been worth storing.

  The attacks upon Tassariel’s father had always come from the east, but where they were located, the only thing east of them was open ocean. And it wasn’t called Endless for nothing. Arivana had confirmed it, a fact every Panisian child knew as a matter of course: eastward of the continent were waves and little else. But the attacks had to come from somewhere, and the ruvaki skyships he’d seen, even the command vessels, were all too small to launch the squads that had come against them.

  Something was out there, he’d insisted. And whatever it was, it was big.

  None of them had been prepared for just how right he was.

  He’d first spotted it about a toll past noon. Just a dark blot on the horizon at first, but it soon resolved into a sharp-peaked dome. Jasside had immediately cloaked their own skyship in darkness, sure their destination was imminent. But as the tolls dragged on, and night fell, and still the monolith’s lowest part had yet to be revealed, the scale of it dawned on them all. Even Sem Aira had been left speechless, for though she knew what it was, she’d never in all her years been so close.

  She’d whispered a word none of them understood. A blessing or a curse, he couldn’t tell. When Arivana had asked, the ruvak woman had told them all what lay before them.

  The Cloister, where the heads of every avenging clan gathered to conduct their war.

  He didn’t bother telling her that “war” was the wrong word. That “genocide” was far more fitting. Though he still wasn’t quite sure why she was with them, he left all such matters to the queen. He’d done his part leading them here. He was sure Arivana was somehow doing hers.

  As the sun began rising, and the mountain-dwarfing vessel came fully into view, he took hold of Tassariel’s hand. She didn’t resist.

  “Are you ready for this?” he asked her.

  Her fingers curled tightly around his. “As long as I’m with you, I’m ready for anything.”

  Mevon announced soon after that he’d spotted an entrance. Draevenus released Tassariel, and the two of them began checking their weapons.

  Vashodia strolled through the streets of Mecrithos, sickened by how happy everyone seemed. Though words of war were whispered with every other breath, replete with concern for loved ones sent to battle, the people of the city went about their daily affairs with an obvious sense of pride, an attitude far removed from the dull pallor of drudgery that infected every downcast or snarling visage the last time she’d been here.

  Yandumar was a good ruler, apparently.

  How wonderful.

  She did her best to ignore everyone as she picked up her pace, drawing her hood even farther over her face to prevent another mother from approaching with worry over a small child wandering the streets alone. The gambit failed. Two women tried to stop her between the gateposts of the city’s highest district and the palace, bringing the total to nine since she’d first entered Mecrithos. On principle, she didn’t kill anyone she didn’t think deserved it, but such annoyances always tested the bounds of her self-imposed rules.

  As her steps finally came to a halt outside the palace gates, two guards crossed their halberds in front of her.

  “You would dare try to stop me?” she said, more amused than anything.

  “Cou
rse not,” one of them said. “Just thought we’d give ya fair warning.”

  “Against what?”

  “The empress,” the other guard said, “she don’t want you here. Told us to kill you on sight.”

  Vashodia raised her head. “Is that so?”

  “Aye,” the first guard said. “But us and the boys got to talking and figured that’d be a bad plan for everyone involved.”

  “Don’t get us wrong,” the second guard added. “We love and respect ole Slick Ren, but there ain’t no use dying in a fight that could only have one outcome.”

  “Still,” the first guard said, “if you wanna avoid trouble, best do your business quietly. Keep hidden and our boys won’t bother you, but if’n you start making a scene . . . ?” He shrugged. “Won’t have much choice at that point.”

  Vashodia smiled. “I think we understand each other perfectly, then. Now, will you kindly open the gates for me? Or will I have to . . .”

  The guards both gestured behind them. A beat later, the ornate metal bars began creaking apart.

  For the first time in years—and perhaps the last time in her life—Vashodia entered the Imperial palace grounds of Mecrithos.

  Taking the guards’ excellent advice, she glided behind the library, avoiding the main thoroughfare to the palace proper. Though she didn’t fear confrontation, the inconvenience of sneaking to her destination was only a fraction of that were she to force her way there. Simple math kept to her to the narrow, vine-strewn paths that eventually led her to a servants’ entrance halfway around the back side of the ghastly structure. She slipped in behind a maid bearing a bucketful of freshly extracted milk.

  Gliding through the once-familiar hallways, ducking into alcoves and side passages to avoid what few servants she came upon as they bustled between errands, Vashodia couldn’t help but notice the changes. Though the palace had been rebuilt with an essentially identical layout, the atmosphere felt wholly different. Gone were the grotesque statues, paintings, and sculptures that depicted images of mierothi dominance, and the lightglobes—dark blue or purple at their brightest—placed far apart to accentuate the shadows. Though the current decor fell short of cheerful, Slick Ren had at least livened the place up.