DEDICATION
To Kathryn
CONTENTS
Dedication
A Page from History of the Veiled Empire
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part II
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part III
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part IV
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
By Nathan Garrison
Copyright
About the Publisher
A page from History of the Veiled Empire, Chapter 9
Uva Thress, Imperial Historian
11,748 A.S.
The end of the Mierothi Civil War came in 11,712 with the assault of Mecrithos by Vashodia’s puppet rebellion, and the subsequent defeat of Emperor Rekaj and all1 high-ranking members of his regime. Though seeming of little importance when compared to future events, this occasion is worth noting because of a few key points of interest.
Firstly, it set the groundwork for future peace between mierothi and valynkar. Draevenus, brother of Vashodia, and Gilshamed2, once-leader of the revolution, were reported to have met in the ruins of the Imperial Palace and found a way to put aside the ancient enmity between their races. One can surmise that it likely had to do with the return of the long-imprisoned valynkar, including Voren the Redeemed and Lashriel, life-mate of Gilshamed. This fact became crucial during the Non-Battle for Humanity3.
Secondly, it marks the only occasion in all of history where the winners of a civil war did not ascend into positions of power. Vashodia, the undisputed mastermind behind all these events, ordered the surviving mierothi into exile, leaving the rule of the Veiled Empire (what is now called the Free States of Ragremos) in the hands of her favored lackey, Yandumar Daere2. His son, Mevon2, who was personally responsible for Rekaj’s demise, faked his own death for reasons unknown, though many speculate that he would not have done so had he known that the great sorceress Jasside2, Vashodia’s apprentice at the time, had still been alive.
Lastly, Vashodia’s final act in the Veiled Empire was to destroy the Shroud, which separated the continent from the rest of the world. This, more than anything else, led directly to what colloquially came to be known as the Chaos War4.
PROLOGUE
Two figures stood on a hillside in the shade of a willow tree, watching the inevitable come to pass.
The valley below them, a field called Trelnizor, was packed with humanity. Men and women in the thousands clustered around a series of enormous tents, the flags of their respective nations fluttering atop them in the breeze. Though there were many soldiers among them, they had not come to make war.
A fact, the two figures knew, that would soon change.
To the north sat the largest of the tents. Stark compared to all its neighbors, the flag it flew bore the image of a bear over a background of colored stripes: brown for the soil they tended and grey for the metal they mined.
Sceptre. A country still foolishly calling itself an empire.
To the south, nestled in the elbow of a creek, lay a pavilion whose magnificence seemed in defiance of Sceptre’s grim shelter. A bird that appeared as if on fire flew across its flag’s brilliant white background, its edges adorned by golden tassels.
Panisahldron. The jewel of the world.
Next to them, small but never insignificant, flew the white-halo-and-stars-on-black of the valynkar.
Every nation was gathered together in peace for the first time in centuries, to discuss an event that concerned them all. Everyone had felt it, even those without a drop of sorcerous blood in their veins. The world had shaken. Everywhere at once. And the source of this monumental disturbance appeared to be, by all accounts, a land long forgotten.
A land known only as the Veiled Empire.
That news was monumental, to say the least. The problem was, though, that opinions were divided as to what they were all going to do about it.
But the figures on the hillside beneath the willow tree cared naught for the deliberations. They knew that the energy released by the shattering of the Shroud had reached far beyond this mere realm. Someone else had felt it. Despite the unshakable mien the two figures affected, they both flinched as long-forgotten enemies made their opening moves in a war both new and mythologically old.
The pavilion belonging to the fair nation of Panisahldron burst into flames.
It did not spread like a normal fire. Rather, the entirety of the canvas ignited at once, trapping hundreds of Panisian citizens inside it: servants, soldiers, and, most importantly, the royal family.
Not one could have escaped the blaze alive.
A dozen men and women scampered away from the scene, wearing the brown-and-grey armor of Sceptre. No less than a hundred people from four different nations saw them and gave chase. The dozen fled, but not towards the Sceptrine encampment. They came straight for the hill occupied by the two figures. They were nimble and quick, and soon outpaced their pursuers. They gathered behind a thick copse of trees and discarded both their strange weapons and their soldiers’ garb, throwing them all into a pile. One of them snapped fingers, and a spark of green light flashed. When it diminished, the pile had turned into ash.
The dozen changed into simple clothes in a variety of styles and stole away individually. They disappeared, one each, into the crowds of every represented nation.
The two figures looked towards each other for the first time since they had both appeared on the hillside. One of them was dressed in a fine suit, white as pearls, and was leaning on a golden cane. The other wore a simple black robe.
“And so,” said the one in white, “this is how it begins.”
“No,” said the one in black. “This is how it ends.”
“Feeling dour tonight, are we?” The one in white chuckled. “How typically pessimistic of you.”
“I always considered myself more of a realist,” said the one in black. “Practicality, as history has proven, ever triumphs over ideology.”
The one in white twirled his cane once, then pointed it towards the burning tent. “And look where your practicality has led us. After all, it was your child that plunged us down this road, ill prepared as we are.”
“She is no child of mine. Not anymore. I don’t think she ever was.”
The one in white laughed again, louder this time. “So you finally see the truth, do you? Took you long enough.”
“Yes.” The one in black furrowed his brow. “How long has it been since we last spoke?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“Then your time grows short indeed.”
“Just answer the question, please.”
The one in white sighed. “Eighteen hundred and forty-four revolutions. You seemed in . . . better shape back then.”
The one in black nodded, closing his eyes.
Neither of them spoke for some time, each electing silence instead as they watched the chaos in the valley below wither and die. Chaos that they both knew had only just begun.
At lon
g last, the one in black cringed. “It has taken great effort to come here. Too great. Have you given any thought as to how you will proceed?”
“Yes,” said the one in white, smiling sadly. “I will do the last thing our children would wish of us. Which, of course, happens to be the very thing they need.”
“Intervention.”
“Indeed.”
The one in black sighed. “It may be too late for that.”
“There’s that pessimism again.”
“No. It’s just . . . like you said . . . our children have outgrown us. My own efforts, which far outweigh yours by the way—”
“Not fair.”
“—may still fall short of what is needed to prepare them. To protect them.”
“Well, then, we’ll just have to do what we always do.”
“What? Pray for a miracle?”
“Of course. What little faith you have!”
The one in black finally cracked a smile.
The one in white twirled his cane again, then peered into the darkening sky. “Alas, I must prepare for my nightly appearance. Until next time, Ruulan.”
“If there is one, Durelos.”
A swarm of brightwisps fled in one direction, and a swarm of darkwisps in the other. Of the two figures, nothing could be seen.
PART I
CHAPTER 1
Dead leaves swirled at his feet as Draevenus swept into the tavern, such as it was. The door, which consisted of goat’s hide stretched over a frame of sticks, slammed shut in the wind, causing all those inside to turn their eyes towards him. The moment was brief, however, as Draevenus marched with confidence towards what passed for a barkeep in these parts.
He acknowledged the man with a slight nod. “Kefir, please,” Draevenus said, giving his order.
“One saphy.”
Draevenus fished around in his purse until his fingers grasped onto something blue. He pulled out an uncut sapphire and placed it on the keeper’s small, square table. In most parts of the empire, such a gem would be enough to buy an entire shipment of liquor, but here, where the things practically sprouted up like weeds, it barely procured a single drink.
The keeper swept the sapphire into a pocket of his apron, then grabbed a round, wooden bowl and held it under a bladder hanging from the tavern wall. Once filled, he presented the drink to Draevenus, who took it carefully so as not to let their fingers come in contact. The false ends of his gloves, which concealed his claws, would not stand up to the scrutiny of touch.
Some questions he’d rather not have to answer.
Draevenus carried himself over and sat on a cushion within one of the many circles situated around the room. Nine other men were seated there as well, facing inwards and talking quietly. Most smoked from narrow pipes, filling the place with a haze that stained the round, mud walls before escaping through a hole at the center of the roof. They wore clothes with colorful, zigzagging patterns and sported straight black hair with various gems and beads woven in.
Draevenus had donned similar costumery though the wig he sported was empty of jewelry. Some complicated system determined the meaning behind the inclusion and placement of the beads, and even after a year among these people, he had still not quite solved the riddle. It was fine, though; most other travelers kept their hair plain as he did.
He took a sip of his kefir, a kind of fermented goat’s milk that he’d come to enjoy. When the only alternative was rice wine, it wasn’t hard to find it pleasant. He remained silent, and after some prescribed length of time, the men around him finally acknowledged his presence.
He’d barely exchanged greetings with his neighbors when the door slammed open again. Everyone turned to stare. But unlike the cursory inspection they’d given Draevenus, every eye lingered longer—and wider—on the giant of a man who had just walked in.
Mevon Daere tended to have that effect on people.
Remember the plan, Mevon, Draevenus thought, and at least try to be subtle about it.
“By the night mother’s breath . . .”
Draevenus turned to the man next to him, who had uttered the words like a curse. It was exactly the opening he had hoped for. “Night mother?”
The men within his circle broke off their gazes from Mevon, locking them on him instead. “What do you mean?” asked the man Draevenus had addressed.
“That’s actually what I’m asking. I’m a traveler, as you can see. From far up the Shelf to the north. I have never heard of this ‘night mother’ before.”
Behind him, Mevon slapped a handful of sapphires down, rattling the keeper’s table. “I’m a thirsty man. Is this enough to keep me quenched all night?”
This breach of etiquette again drew the entire tavern’s attention. Men began shifting nervously, whispering to each other. The keeper’s face turned red and puffy. Draevenus knew that, at the moment, the locals probably thought of him as family compared to this bumbling barbarian in their midst. He almost had to bite his lip to hide his smile but thought better of it; revealing his shark-sharp teeth never turned out well.
Good start, Mevon. Just don’t overdo it . . .
. . . like you have all the other times.
He wondered why he still held on to the hope that things would go smoothly for once. Mevon had come a long way in the past year but was still uncomfortable in any situation that couldn’t be solved best by a blade.
Draevenus canted his head towards his neighbor. “Well? Who is she?”
His attention clearly divided, Draevenus was surprised when the man actually answered. “She is the darkness that chases away the sun every evening. Her breath rises from the abyss to drive fear into our hearts and madness into our herds. Crops fail at her cold touch. The wombs of our wives wither at the sound of her wailing laughter. She is the night mother. How can you not know her?”
Draevenus had to struggle to keep his excitement in check. “It seems I do know her, but where I come from, there are as many names for her as there are waves upon the sea.”
But Draevenus needed only one.
Ruul.
He could forgive these isolated villagers for getting the gender wrong. Abyss, he could forgive them just about anything right now. This was the strongest lead they’d gotten so far, after a frustrating and fruitless search. Most villages would shut down or grow belligerent at even the slightest probing of their mythology. Tricking them into talking was the best he and Mevon could manage.
Draevenus peeked over his shoulder. The Hardohl had settled in a circle across the room and arranged half a dozen bowls of rice wine—Mevon’s poison of choice—in front of him. He immediately began chatting up his neighbors. Loudly. The other men tried to both ignore Mevon and shame him into silence at the same time.
It didn’t work.
Draevenus took several gulps from his kefir to cover his grin at their futile efforts, savoring the creamy burn before turning back to the man at his side. “I will admit, though,” he said, “that part about her breath rising from the abyss is not something I’ve ever heard before. Are there places nearby where her darkness actually seeps from the ground?”
The man at his side stiffened up, and Draevenus knew immediately that the question had gone too far. And here I am, blaming Mevon for his lack of subtlety.
“Why do you wish to know such a thing?” the man asked.
Draevenus sighed. No use in backing out now. “Because,” he said, “sometimes I wonder what it would be like pay her a visit and make her answer for all the terrible things she’s done.”
Stunned silence descended on his circle, holding them all in shock for four long beats. Then the man jumped to his feet.
“You will bring curses upon us all with such talk.” He withdrew a bone dagger from his belt. “Begone!”
The other men in the circle rose, brandishing similar weapons. “Begone
,” they intoned as one.
Draevenus sprang to his feet and leapt backwards to the center of the tavern. He raised his hands. The men with daggers shuffled toward him. Other circles were also rising to their feet, weapons coming out and waving his way.
“Time to go,” Draevenus called.
Mevon was at his side in an instant, draining the last drops from a bowl before tossing it towards the startled barkeep. “So soon?” he asked, smiling. “I was just getting to know my new friends. What happened?”
“I asked the wrong kind of questions. People pointed sharp objects at me. You know how it goes.”
Mevon chuckled. “I’m just glad it wasn’t my fault this time.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything.”
“Hey, I’ve been trying. You know this isn’t my style. Did you at least get something out of it?”
“Yes,” Draevenus said, feeling the corners of his lips twitch upwards. “More than we ever have before.”
“That isn’t saying much.”
“True enough. I guess the only question left is—what do we do about them?”
During their rather casual exchange, every other man in the room had encircled them, faces sneering and blades bared. They edged closer with every passing beat.
“The same thing we always do.” Mevon crouched into a fighting stance. The crowd flinched back. “Give them something they’ll never forget.”
Draevenus sighed and began energizing. “If we must.” Dark lightning crackled from his fingertips.
Eyes widened on every face, and whispers of “night mother” cascaded through the tavern. The daggers, once held firmly, began shaking. Draevenus gathered more dark energy to himself as Mevon cracked his knuckles.
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