by NS Dolkart
“Ravennis knew,” Narky pointed out, “and He was watching us too. Is it possible He and Eramia were allies?”
“It’s possible,” Phaedra said uncertainly. “Eramia is Elkinar’s younger sister, at least according to that book I read in Anardis. The Second Cycle, remember? It didn’t mention Ravennis at all, which doesn’t help much, but it may mean that He’s a younger God. At least there doesn’t seem to be any ancient enmity there.”
“Great,” said Narky. “So Eramia and Ravennis have been planning for us to release Salemis and awaken God Most High all along. Ravennis got us all to leave Tarphae while Eramia goaded Karassa into smiting the island so that we’d never go back. Bandu’s right: these Gods don’t care about us. They’re ruthless.”
“Quiet!” the king cried. “Don’t say such things! Is it not enough for you to have escaped the plague? Must my people be twice-cursed?”
“I’m sorry,” Narky said more quietly. “In any case, now we know that this has all been planned. We were meant to find Salemis all along. So much for us just being clever.”
“Men have free will,” Phaedra insisted. “Ravennis and Eramia could have been planning this for all of eternity, but it’s still up to us to actually do it. We could still choose to do otherwise if we wanted to.”
“Right,” said Narky. “We could leave Salemis to rot, leave Psander to die, lose Eramia’s protection, and be struck down by Her or by Magor or Mayar or even God Most High Himself. It sure doesn’t feel like we’re making a choice, or like we ever did. It’s felt like we’ve been slaves more or less ever since we met Psander. Well, now we know it’s been a good while longer than that.”
“Hunter,” Phaedra pleaded, “help me here.”
“Me?” Hunter didn’t know what to say. He was embarrassed to speak in front of Phaedra and Narky, whose thoughts on the matter were strong and precise. He had always thought about Karassa and the other Gods as being sort of like parents who tried to control their children’s fates but were never quite pleased with the result. Would they even get credit if they succeeded?
“Now we know why the elves call us godserfs,” he said.
They journeyed on in near silence. Propriety meant nothing to them now, and they foraged and stole whatever food they could find on their way. After a few days of traveling, they came upon a horribly familiar sight: the great swath of trampled earth and refuse left by an army on the march. This army was moving northwest away from the sea, along Atel’s roads. It had probably come from Parakas, Hunter thought with some dread. Magor’s army was already surrounding Silent Hall, and now His brother Mayar was coming to His aid. Were Atel and His roads complicit? The Traveler God was also the Messenger God, after all.
The islanders didn’t even bother discussing it. They simply turned to follow the path of destruction. They all knew where it would lead.
Criton went ahead as a scout, returning frequently to apprise them of their position. Finally one day, he reported that the armies were in sight up ahead. They were preparing a joint assault.
The candles came out. Criton had used up their only spare, but there were still enough for each of them to hold one.
“If we can,” said Hunter, “let’s stay together this time. We can’t afford to waste time getting us all in the door.”
They lit their candles and pressed on together, navigating by the sound of each others’ tread and sometimes brushing lightly against each other. When they reached the edge of the camp, Hunter’s heart sank. Past the thousands of men preparing themselves for battle, Silent Hall stood ominous and still. The fortress was visible.
They wound their way through the camp, avoiding the clustering soldiers as best they could. Hunter prayed to Eramia and to God Most High that they were not too late, and that they would reach Silent Hall safely. For once, the Gods seemed to hear his prayers.
When they reached the gate the armies were already mustering behind them, ready to charge at any minute. Hunter’s candle had burnt down almost to a nub when he pounded on the gate, shouting for Psander to let them in.
Her head appeared in a window above. “You have him?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes,” said Narky. “Let us in!”
Psander disappeared for a moment, but the gate did not open. She soon reappeared above them, carrying Goodweather’s seed.
“All is prepared,” she said. “From what I can tell, the seed ought to grow once you plant and water it, and after that it should tear its hole in the mesh fairly quickly.”
“Good,” said Phaedra, “but you have to let us in!”
Psander shook her head. “The only way to get my hall into the other world is to plant the seed under the cornerstone, on the outside. Here, you’ll need this.”
She threw down the seed, and a shovel. They landed together with a thud and a clang that seemed to ring across the battlefield. Then the hot wax dripped through Hunter’s fingers, and his candle burned out.
59
The Islanders
The soldiers were pointing at them and shouting. Hundreds of eyes turned toward them as one by one the islanders came into view. Phaedra blinked, adjusting to her new reality. She had dreamt of following Psander’s path, of becoming the new “last” academic wizard. If God Most High supported her, no other God could smite her for studying the old ways, or for teaching whoever else wanted to learn. She had thought to breathe life into academic wizardry. Now she was being sacrificed to it.
She picked up the seed and turned around to look at the army. Ardisian spears and Parakese crossbows were already arrayed for the assault on Silent Hall. Phaedra suddenly realized that this would be her last view: the armies of Mayar and Magor, glistening and triumphant.
Psander’s timing was off. She had gambled with their lives, and lost. Phaedra sighed. At least it was over.
Only Hunter seemed to disagree.
* * *
Hunter stepped out toward the enemy, sword raised to the heavens as if in triumph. “Send me your champion!” he shouted, his voice ringing in his own ears. “A man of Tarphae is worth twenty continental men! Send me your champion, and I will slay him!”
The bowmen hesitated, and Hunter repeated his call for single combat. He would not be refused, he knew; not if the Ardismen or Parakese had any pride whatsoever. They would send him a champion, and he would fight as he had been meant to fight.
Of course, it hardly mattered whether he won or lost: as soon as the single combat ended the battle would begin, and the twin armies would make short work of him and his friends. But time spent on single combat was time the others could use to dig a hole for Goodweather’s seed. Perhaps when he died, he could die victorious.
Behind him, the others came to life and began moving toward the fortress’ cornerstone. “Don’t run,” Hunter heard Phaedra say. “If you run, they’ll shoot.”
Ahead, the ranks shivered and parted to let a man through.
“I accept your challenge, boy,” cried the High Priest of Magor.
All hope of triumph faded.
* * *
Bandu turned to Criton, thrusting their daughter into his hands. “Take Goodweather,” she demanded. “Keep her safe.”
She turned away. “Come with us,” she said to the dazed king. “We need your help.”
Criton remained at the gate, holding Goodweather to his chest. The tiny girl opened her eyes and looked silently up at him. Criton’s heart ached. She knew nothing, nothing at all. She didn’t understand death, and didn’t know enough to be afraid for her life. All she knew was him.
Criton held his daughter tight and leapt into the air.
Below, Bestillos stopped in his tracks. He pointed his spear at Criton. “Down,” he hissed, his voice somehow ringing in Criton’s ears as if he was speaking straight into them.
Criton’s magic left him instantly, and he plummeted toward the ground. His stomach lurched. He held Goodweather close with one arm and tried to catch himself on the stone wall beside him, but it did little
to break his fall. His legs crumpled under him and he fell forward, twisting his body to keep Goodweather out of harm’s way. He landed on his side in the end, and his head hit the ground. The last thing he heard was Goodweather crying.
* * *
Bandu heard the cry and turned to see Criton fall. She gasped and made to stand up, but Phaedra caught her by the hem of her skirt. “We have to keep going,” she said. “They won’t survive unless we finish.”
Tears came to Bandu’s eyes, but she did not leave. Phaedra was right. They finished digging, and Bandu raised the acorn to the king. “It needs your tears,” she told him.
The man stared at her blankly. “My tears?” he asked. “I have no tears, child. You rescued me from my prison, but there is no future for me. I realize that. We will die here, and why shouldn’t we? This place is as good as any other. You have done me a great service. I thought I should die surrounded by the ghosts of those who suffered for my mistake, with only Karassa’s anger above my head. But now, you’ve let me see a world bigger than my sorrows. I will not die alone.”
“Your Majesty,” Phaedra pleaded, “we don’t have to die here! If you water this seed with your tears, it will–”
“I have no tears,” the king repeated, a vague smile on his lips.
Phaedra and Narky began talking at the same time, trying to convince him, but Bandu knew better. The king did not understand, and never would. She lifted the acorn higher and smashed it down onto his foot.
The king yelped and hopped up and down, but Bandu didn’t stop there. She hit his other foot until he fell to his backside, and once his face was in reach, caught him by his beard. She twisted her hand, pulling him toward her and bringing him to eye level with Goodweather’s seed. The acorn’s surface grew wet and shiny. It seemed that the king had some tears left in him after all.
Bandu released him and stuffed the acorn into the hole they had dug. Grow! she thought desperately.
* * *
Narky dropped his shovel. Phaedra was impotently apologizing for Bandu’s actions as he turned back toward the gate, mumbling that he would check on Criton. When he lifted his eyes, Hunter and Bestillos were circling each other while the soldiers of Ardis and Parakas cheered the priest on. Narky walked toward Criton as quickly as he dared, watching his friend fight. Hunter was fast, very fast. He was also outmatched. Even at his advanced age, Bestillos was faster and stronger. Soon Hunter had given up on counterattacks altogether and was simply parrying and retreating, parrying and retreating. Narky tried to see things positively, the way Criton might have, but it was impossible. Anyone could see Hunter was losing – he seemed keenly aware of it himself.
Narky reached Criton and knelt by his body. He was still alive. Baby Goodweather was also alive, and screaming so loudly that a nasty part of him wished she had been knocked unconscious instead of her father. As Narky watched, Criton’s eyes fluttered and opened.
“I can’t move,” he groaned.
“Don’t try,” Narky told him. “We can’t do any good anyway. Bandu and Phaedra are planting the seed, and Hunter’s getting himself killed in single combat with the red priest. All we can do is wait, and hope the girls finish what they’re doing before the red priest does.”
Criton only seemed to be half listening. The baby continued to wail. “Is that Goodweather?” Criton asked.
“Yes,” said Narky.
Criton smiled. “It’s all right, little one.”
“Listen,” said Narky, “do you feel any pain?”
“All over,” Criton answered, “but my legs are the worst.”
“Oh,” said Narky, relieved. He had been thinking of Prince Tana. “Good.”
He was about to stand up when he noticed something on the ground, a small black object. He picked it up, and found that it was a candle nub.
There were cheers from behind him. Bestillos was pressing his assault. Hunter backed away from him, his parries growing slower and weaker. It would not be long now.
“Criton,” said Narky, kneeling down again, “I need your fire.”
He held the candle nub over Criton’s mouth. Criton nearly melted it entirely, and his breath set fire to Narky’s sleeve. Narky transferred the candle to his other hand and frantically waved his arm about, but the flames didn’t die until he threw himself to the ground and lay down on top of his burning arm, smothering the flame. He didn’t waste time inspecting his burn, but got up and hurried toward the soldiers watching the fight. They had exactly what he needed.
As he reached the ranks, the fight behind him grew louder and more intense. He didn’t have long. He chose a sturdy-looking man who stood with his crossbow held out in front of him. The knife at his belt was unprotected. Narky snatched it from the belt, and while the man raised his crossbow out of the way and looked down in confusion, Narky thrust the knife deep into his armpit.
The soldier screamed, dropping his crossbow. Narky caught it before it hit the ground. In a moment he was dancing away from the dying man, slipping between the many men who ran past him to see what had happened.
When he was clear of the crowd, Narky fell to one knee. He could already feel the heat from his candle as the wick burned down toward his hand. He hastily stuck it on the crossbow and turned back toward the fighters.
The fight was over. Hunter’s sword had broken, and Bestillos was standing over him with the barbed spear inches above his chest. “You die with honor, child,” Bestillos said, loud enough so that the crowd could hear. “I haven’t faced an opponent like you in a very long time.”
Narky aimed at the priest’s back and loosed the bolt.
* * *
Phaedra stared down at the inert seed, her heart filling with panic. “Why isn’t it growing?” she nearly shrieked. “It’s supposed to be growing!”
“It is young,” Bandu said quietly. “Does not know this place, this dirt. It is afraid.”
“For the love of all that’s holy!” Phaedra cried. “Can you reassure it?”
“I try,” Bandu answered. She leaned over and began to hum, hesitantly at first but with growing confidence. “Don’t be afraid,” Bandu sang, somewhat tunelessly. “The dirt is good here. Grow!”
Still nothing happened. Phaedra suggested that Bandu try speaking to it in elvish rhyme and meter, but Bandu waved her away impatiently and kept to her song. Phaedra was reduced to watching and hoping.
The king sat with his back to the fortress wall, staring wordlessly at Bandu. Phaedra had expected him to react angrily to Bandu’s abuse, to beat her or scream at her or otherwise fight back. Instead, he had retreated to this spot the minute she had released him. And from that vantage point, he simply watched.
Bandu’s chant grew louder, and Phaedra looked back to the seed to see that its shell was beginning to crack. From behind her, she heard cheers. Was it all over? Had Hunter been killed?
As Bandu sang, roots burst from the acorn and planted themselves in the soil. After that, the growth happened too quickly for Phaedra to fathom. Bandu leapt backward as a gigantic tree trunk shot up from the place where the seed had been. Dirt and stones fell all around them as Silent Hall rose toward the clouds. There was a horrible rending sound, as if Phaedra’s own head were somehow being torn in two. There were screams from behind her, with hundreds and then thousands of voices joining in.
High above, a massive dragon dove toward the battlefield.
60
Narky
The candle blew out as the bolt left his crossbow and buried itself deep in the priest’s back, between his shoulder blades. Bestillos reeled and fell face forward to the ground. Narky dropped the crossbow and scrambled toward Hunter before any enterprising soldier could cut him down from behind. Nobody tried. There was a deafening roar and Silent Hall shot toward the heavens, borne by the Yarek’s massive branches. Hunter’s broken sword lay forgotten on the ground as the two of them stared upwards, watching Psander’s fortress disappear atop the primordial tree. Then a winged figure appeared in the sky, fly
ing down toward them.
The fire that came from Salemis’ jaws made Criton’s flames look like a dying ember. The armies of Ardis and Parakas screamed as their camp became an inferno, vaporizing men and tents alike. Those who were not killed in the first breath of flame scattered in all directions. Salemis caught some in a second breath before climbing back toward the heavens, his scales shining like a second sun. Narky did not see him pierce the clouds: he had to double up coughing from the smoke that rose off the battlefield behind him.
He stayed on the ground, waiting for the smoke to clear. His eyes watered. When he opened them, he found that he was staring straight at Bestillos’ corpse. The priest of Magor’s eyes were open wide as if in shock, and it took Narky a moment to remember that he hadn’t even seen Salemis appear. He had died still believing in his side’s victory.
Hunter knelt beside Narky and tried to tell him something, but Narky could not hear him. His ears were still ringing, and the Yarek was making a sort of enlarged creaking sound as its roots burrowed into the ground and new limbs burst out of its trunk, already halfway to the clouds. When the sound died down somewhat, Narky asked Hunter to repeat himself.
“You cheated,” Hunter shouted. “You shot him in the back.”
Narky nodded. He was a murderer; he had known it since the beginning. The hand that had killed Ketch knew no honor. He had hoped, once, that repentance might transform him into someone he was not, but such was not the way of the world. Narky would always take unfair advantage where he could. He would always be willing to cheat.
Hunter interrupted his thoughts. “Thank you,” he said, as the world around them shook. “I never would have done what you did, and I would have lost a friend. I owe you my life.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Narky said. “I probably owe you mine several times over.”