Ashes to Embers

by Michelle Schad

  “Where are we now?” Aeron asked, looking at Nadya. She, in turn, looked at a young man named Adrian one of the few scouts they managed to meet up with after leaving the Catacombs. Jaxiam Delquire was another - a duende man with a boorish accent that made him difficult to listen to. However, the focus was not on him, but on Adrian. The young man had a mop of matted blonde curls on his head and "spoke" using odd hand signs and gestures that Aeron was not familiar with. He had gray eyes and a pallor to his skin that suggested he was at least part Shade like so many were in Kormaine. It was rude to ask such things, so Aeron bit his tongue.

  “Here,” Nadya said, pointing to a spot just beneath the third letter of the nation’s name on the map Adrian carried. It was roughly the midway point as they’d back-tracked a great deal after the incident at the Catacombs. Vasily looked over Nadya’s shoulder, frowning in thought, then at Jaxiam and Adrian.

  “Is it worth it to try to make it into the Imperium?” Aeron asked in a low tone so as not to disturb the king. While the Phoenix Empire had positive relations with the Gingetsune Imperium, they were not in the majority and the king had quite a plagued history with the kitsune of the Imperium. Considering the trauma they’d already endured, bringing more was not Aeron’s goal. He knew that Damaskha and Baruche also openly dealt with the Imperium but everyone else avoided the kitsune nation like a plague upon mortal- kind.

  “Take us from one set o’ monsters to anovah,” Jaxiam drawled. Aeron tried not to wince as the words settled on his pointed ears.

  “The Imperium isn’t looking for us and are less likely to rip our faces off. Plus, in theory, having Shiro with us might help,” Aeron pointed out. Demyan’s name was not immediately known to him and a new one given during his time with the kitsune. Growing up a slave did them no favors, but having someone familiar with their customs might help if it came down to a choice between demons and kitsune. For Aeron, the choice was clear. “But we can’t stay here, and we can’t go east. Going north will put us right back in the thick of it and, I don’t know about you, but I have neither a ship nor wings hiding in my back pocket to get us to Itahl.”

  Adrian tapped Nadya’s shoulder, making signs and symbols with his hands. Aeron frowned at it, curious about what was said and, more importantly, how to learn it.

  “Adrian says that we can Shadow Walk,” Nadya said, clearly understanding him.

  “That will not get us very far,” Vasily said. “It has limits and dangers.”

  Aeron sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Without the Baron, they were floating through the nation on prayers and adrenaline. That would not get them very far either and was even more dangerous than traversing the Realm of Shadow. Aeron glanced around at those that were left: Nadya, the king and queen, Adrian, Jaxiam, Vasily and himself. That was it. Everyone else had been taken or killed.

  “How far can we get by shadow?” Aeron asked.

  Adrian shrugged, making a thoughtful face as he considered the question. He raised seven fingers after a time and shrugged again. “Seven what?”

  “Leagues,” Nadya and Jaxiam said at once. Further than Aeron expected, but not far enough.

  A rumble of thunder took their attention as the sound created vibrations that were strong enough to shake the small home they hid in. Dust fell from the ceiling, making everyone cough and shift uncomfortably. The storm made Aeron’s head hurt. Nadya complained of the same. It had an effect on casters, though Aeron did not know enough about Hex Storms to know what kind of effect or why. The one above Kormaine was too large, too violent to be anything natural and filled with enough fell magic to put a blight on most of the nation. The thought of someone making a Hex Storm the size of what lingered over Kormaine made Aeron want to cry.

  “We cannot stay here anymore,” Vasily said. Everyone around Aeron nodded making the young prince sigh. He was being made the leader by default. He glanced over at Demyan who did not look well at all and sighed again.

  “Okay,” he said. “Give Demyan a few more minutes, then we’ll leave. We make our way to the coast then head south into the Imperium. With luck, we might be able to charter a ship before we reach the border. Vasily, see if you can convince the family here to leave after we’ve gone. It isn’t safe for them to stay anymore.” Again, everyone nodded. It may not be the best plan, but it was a plan. Given their circumstances, it was the best that they could hope for.

  ***

  Echoed voices rang through the open areas of the ruined city at the heart of Tierra Vida. Vines and verdure grew over crumbling stone structures that served to house wildlife as much as it did the displaced tirsai of the Phoenix Empire or the smatterings of duende from the Asphondel forests. Handfuls of the two types of olve roamed within the dilapidated structures, wooden crates, or bulging bundles that remained tightly sealed despite nearly three years of habitation in the ruined city. Small groupings of waxed tents and rolled palettes existed through the enclosed spaces, providing bare-bones shelter from the varied elements of the Tierra Vida jungles.

  Maeve Oenel looked at her people, at the state of things and sighed. How the mighty had fallen. Nearly five years of scraping by in the muck and dirt, abandoned by their allies or run out of safe-havens over and over. This was the third place she’d taken her people with promises of safety and change that never came. She felt the weight of their judgments on her, the expectations of security that she could not give. She was not her sister. Moreover, she was not her brother. Gannon was the Empire. He cultivated their allies, put Joline on the throne, walked among the people in ways she could never hope to replicate.

  She tried not to let it bother her, refocusing her attention on the table before her. On its surface was a large, hand-drawn map weighed down by rocks or pieces of the ruins that continued to fall off at random. The map detailed what they knew of the nation interior thus far. It did not hold many details: the ruins, the surrounding jungle marked with good hunting spots and spots to avoid, and the nearest actual city. They needed to send out more scouts, explore more regions. Another map beneath the one of the ruins detailed what was left of the Asphondel forests where many of the Empire’s survivors fled to only to be trapped there by the demons that ravaged the tirsai homeland. Frustration welled inside of Maeve until she felt like she might explode.

  Maeve looked up from the map at the sound of voices outside the tent in which she stood. The morning’s hunting party had returned.

  “Captain,” Lt. Valance Novis said as Maeve exited the tent. The man was the only one to use her City Guard title still. Most merely muttered a begrudging ‘your grace’ when near her.

  “Everyone return intact today, Liuetenant?” she replied as she walked. Once, she led the Illurian City Guard. Once, she commanded respect and fear. Once.

  “It appears so, milady,” Valance replied. “Navid has returned as well.”

  Maeve only barely stopped herself from growling. When the centaur arrived in Tierra Vida with only Eila and Rielle, Maeve nearly killed the demi- human on the spot for failure to protect his charge, failure to protect the Phoenix heir, for failing in general. While she and her younger brother were not particularly close, things would be much different if he were there; if Navid had done his job. Valance noticed, picking up his pace to intercept the centaur. Maeve caught him up.

  “This is now the third time you’ve taken my nieces from this camp without my permission, centaur,” Maeve barked. To his credit, Navid merely paused and stood tall against the verbal beating. She made it very clear that the girls were not to leave the camp, especially after the fiasco with Kaleo. Her brother’s eldest child would visit the refugees against his step-mother’s wishes after they arrived in Tierra Vida. He was a favorite among the people, much like his father had been, riling them up with stories of finding the lost prince, of knowing Gannon was alive. It gave the people too much false hope, forcing Maeve to send him back to Esbeth where he belonged. The last visit had not gone well with the boy leaving in a fit state. A week later, his ste
p- mother, the Esbethi Amatessa and Gannon’s widow, sent a coterie of soldiers to retrieve him. The cursed woman could do that but could not lift a finger to help former allies.

  Eila was similar to the Amatessa - jumping in at the wrong time. Her twin sister was no better, both of them folding their arms across their chest as they moved in front of Navid.

  “We asked him to take us,” the girls said in unison.

  “We don’t learn anything by staying in camp, Aunt Maeve,” Eila added.

  “Or by twiddling our thumbs,” Rielle finished.

  They were too much like their mother, both headstrong and stubborn. They spoke with the people, worked with them, but would never be accepted as leaders. The tirsai let a woman lead them once and it led them to ruin. They would never allow such a thing to happen again. Maeve let it go, focusing on Navid. His black hair was starting to show signs of his age, with streaks of gray laced throughout.

  “What is this?” Maeve asked as she snatched a folded parchment from the centaur’s hands. He sighed but did not argue or try to take the parchment back.

  The girls practically bristled like angry cats. The letter was from Kaleo. Maeve read it quickly, turning the parchment over with a frown.

  “Where is he, Navid?” Maeve demanded. It stated he was safe but not where. Her erstwhile nephew had already caused enough grief. He was a problem she intended to nip in the bud as quickly as possible; a problem that should have been nipped at birth.

  “I don’t know, highness. That was all I received.” Maeve’s brows drew down to a furious point, nostrils flaring as she moved forward toward the much larger centaur. Honor would not let him back down, stubborn rage would not allow Maeve to back down either.

  “You keep too many secrets, guardian. You exist out of a need to keep the girls safe because I can’t spare any of my soldiers to do it. If I could, you would not be here. This cannot be all he sent - the quill scratched through to this page. What else did Kaleo say?”

  “HIGHNESS!”

  Maeve turned sharply toward the voice that called to her, growling as she pushed past the centaur. Women held their children close while the men reached reflexively for makeshift weapons. “What!”

  A small group struggled toward her clearly carrying someone between them. When they stopped, she saw that it was, in fact, two people, both severely injured though one was far worse than the other. The first was still mostly conscious. His short, coiled hair was matted with dirt, soot, and blood, dark-colored skin as ashen as a used fire log. The other individual was dark of hair, and far worse off than the first man. If he was alive, he would not be so for long without Healing – something they were grossly short on out in the wilds of Tierra Vida. His face she was familiar with, handsome and deathly pale - the Baron Gabriel Karov of Kormaine. “Bring them here!”

  She led the ragged group of people carrying the two injured men to a tent set aside for the ill or infirm. There were far too many of them for Maeve’s liking. Space was made for the newcomers, their clothes removed so that wounds could be cleaned. Maeve followed, wincing when she saw the state the Baron was in. The man was better known for his thief-taking and philandering ways than his leadership skills, but he was also a skilled warrior and tactician. Too much blood stained his clothes or oozed from open wounds. Some of those wounds, Maeve noticed, had black veins stretching out from the raw opening, poisoning the blood stream; demon wounds.

  “Dammit,” she hissed. “Halora!”

  The woman was not a great Healer, but she had enough of the gift for it to be of benefit to them. The Baron needed her attention first, the dark-skinned man second. None of his wounds looked severe enough to cause major harm.

  “What happened?” Maeve demanded as she stepped aside to allow Halora and those with more experience in treating wounds to deal with the wounded.

  “We don’t know, highness,” Saphir said, one of her most trusted soldiers. His chest rose and fell with exertion. “They stumbled out of the temple. The dark one had a stone, but I don’t recognize the symbol.”

  He shook his head, at a loss for how to explain things further before handing Maeve the stone. Eila and Rielle peeked from around the growing crowd. Neither were gifted like their brother, neither able to help but too curious for their own good. Navid, she noticed, watched with concern.

  Maeve ignored them, focusing on the stone. It was black, worn smooth but with sharp edges. She saw blood crusted to it, filling the indented rune at the center. She frowned, looking to the dark-skinned man. She turned his hand over, his palm cut in the same shape as the stone. She had never seen a Port Stone that used blood magic.

  “What is this?” she demanded as she stomped through the gathering crowd to Navid. “And do not lie to me, guardian, lives depend on it. Is it one of his?”

  The centaur sighed, taking the stone from Maeve’s palm to study it. Her brother, in addition to being a Powerful caster, was also a rather skilled alchemist. He absorbed knowledge like a sponge absorbed water, easily manipulating science and natural talent into one seamless piece. She envied him that talent, envied a lot of things she would never openly admit to, especially now. It would have been like him to give something like the stone she held to her nephew. He peered, eyes narrowing. He smirked and shook his head.

  “Navid,” Maeve growled, patience gone.

  “It’s a Blood Stone, highness. The caster makes the stone of blood. When activated, it will take you to that person - or their nearest relative if that person is no longer alive.”

  “So, this is his,” Maeve countered but the centaur stubbornly shook his head. Eila grabbed the stone from Navid’s hand, looking it over before showing it to her sister.

  “No, highness - Gannon could not make Blood Stones. These are Eila’s handiwork.”

  Maeve blinked, looking at Eila. The girl was only sixteen and had, thus far, not shown any inclination for magical talent - alchemical or otherwise. Women weren’t even allowed to learn alchemy, let alone practice it.

  “Gannon,” Maeve sighed. He never agreed with the gender roles among the tirsai, preferring the more equal roles of the duende.

  “Aeron needs help,” Eila said, looking at the stone then at the centaur. “Navid - this one is mine; I made one for each of us after Uncle left. I thought I lost it.”

  “Apparently not,” the centaur said. “How many more of these do you have?”

  “Enough,” Eila said, already palming the stone and walking away with Rielle on her heels as a physical shadow.

  “Just where do you think you’re going?” Maeve hissed. She took hold of each of the girls’ arms, only to be met with the most hateful glares she’d ever seen on her nieces faces.

  “Highness, if you’ll excuse me, I have a charge in need of assistance,” Navid said, as the girls’ arms slipped away from Maeve’s grasp.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sleep was becoming a luxury none of the Kormandi could afford. They ran into a pack of hell hounds after leaving the small home in Kazan, losing Vasily in the process. Demyan took the loss to heart, mourning his vassal as if he’d caused the man’s death with his own hands. They were desperate, wounded, exhausted. Aeron felt his head loll to his chest, snapping up once before finally giving over to exhausted sleep. His dreams were usually varied, but most of them revolved around his sisters or parents of late.

  It was no different now, as he stood on a black- sanded beach looking out at a horizon too bright for his eyes. He heard the sound of giggles to his left that took his attention from the blinding light ahead of him. Identical tirsai girls splashed and played in the water, chasing each other with make-shift swords while holding up their thin linen gowns.

  “Aeron!”

  The sound of his name on his sisters' lips made him smile. He missed them a great deal despite their annoyances. They were not as small as the girls in the dream, but then, neither was he. He looked at himself, younger, shorter, thinner. His clothes were of a fine cut but covered in sand and water and
his hair not nearly as long as it was now. He smiled again at his sisters and ran to them, splashing in the rolling waves.

  “Aeron!” his sisters called again, though this time it was not jovial. It was terrified, a warning that made him frown. The brightness on the horizon dimmed until it was nearly as dark as the sand around him. He turned, kicking up sand in his wake to see an olven boy with a white staff and felt the blood drain from his face.

  “Found you,” the boy said. He had clawed hands and the tiniest of fangs that showed through a wicked smile. The boy from the catacombs. “Did you really think you could hide forever?”

  “Who are you?” Aeron demanded, now back to the form he was familiar with. He felt his own Power burning in his veins, ready to defend himself, but the boy only smirked and shook his head.

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” he said. “Yira doesn’t take kindly to use of Power in Her realm.”

  “…sen!”

  The echo resonated across the beach, making Aeron bring his hands to his pointed ears. It hurt to hear, the entire dream vibrating like a bell. Even the olven boy winced a little, then snorted softly, glancing up to the dim sky.

  “Saved by the bell, little worm,” he said. “Don’t worry, we’ll see each other soon. I know what you smell like now.”

  With that, the boy vanished, rocking Aeron from his dream. He sat up, gasping and ready to fight. Nadya grabbed him by the shoulders, speaking to him but his ears continued to ring with the sound of the echo that resonated in his dream.

  “What happened?” Nadya demanded, bringing Aeron around to her face. The others watched him with the same amount of concern, even fear. His arm burned, the whole of it as red as if he’d stuck it in a fire. Power melted away, his skin tender to the touch as he flexed each finger one by one. Beneath his hand was a scorch mark on the wood floor of the room they slept in.