Someone in the crowd let loose a whimper. Draevenus released his spell.
Curtains of pure darkness sprang up around—but not touching—both him and Mevon, leading out towards the tavern’s entrance. The once-Hardohl, careful not to contact the sorcerous conjuration, lest his innate talent render the spell void, leapt out the door. Sighing, Draevenus followed.
He cast one last glance at the bewildered villagers, who had just seen two mysterious men vanish before their very eyes. He and Mevon couldn’t help but laugh as they ventured out onto the rocky slopes beyond the small collection of yurts, dead leaves swirling in their wake.
Vashodia strolled along the edge of the new mierothi settlement, admiring her impeccable handiwork.
Over seven hundred freestanding houses, one for each of her kin, dotted a hillside strewn with boulders and clumps of red grass. The hill curved in a bowl-like manner, with the western quadrant open and spilling down the mountainside into Weskara. On the ridges ringing the valley, two hundred large tenements sat in a protective ring, home to nearly ten thousand daeloth who had followed the better half of their blood out of the Veiled Empire.
After a year of traveling, their migrant nation had been more than ready to settle down. Vashodia had happily obliged. Leading massive caster circles, she had slaved for days crafting every last building. Her apprentice had helped, too. Clever girl that she was, Jasside had picked up the method of shaping solid stone structures out of thin air after seeing it done only once.
This one shows promise. I may have to keep her.
Vashodia swept her eyes over the hillside in search of Jasside’s house. She’d set the girl to a task, and Vashodia intended to check her progress. There. The place stood out. While most of the mierothi had elected to paint their homes in, at most, three different colors, her apprentice had chosen a much more radiant collage. Black and white dominated the faces, with purple and gold intertwining around the edges. Red bloomed from each sharp corner. Vashodia began threading her way towards it.
A chill gust of wind fluttered her black robes, reminding Vashodia of the altitude. Their exodus had led her people to occupy this territory high in the Nether Mountains, which, though technically unclaimed, bordered regions controlled by three separate nations. Sceptre and Fasheshe hadn’t yet made their intentions known, but the Weskarans seemed almost rabid in their opposition to the sudden mierothi proximity. She’d been trying to avoid their emissary for the better part of two days, but as she passed a group of mierothi women carving personalized sigils and protective wards into the walls of their homes, the man nearly bumped into her.
“There you are,” the emissary said. “I’ve had to search your entire village thrice over to find you. Did you think you could just—”
“Yes,” Vashodia said, smiling.
The emissary clenched his jaw, face turning red. His yellow tunic quivered through no fault of the wind. “Insolent wench! I represent King Reimos of Weskara, and he is no man to be trifled with by a mere child. I’ve given you ample time to contemplate our terms, but we must now discuss the relocation of your people from our border.”
Vashodia raised an eyebrow at the man. Then she started giggling.
“You find something funny?” he demanded.
“Oh, nothing,” Vashodia said. “Just wondering whether or not you’d have time to scream before I turned your bones to ash.”
The emissary stepped back, fumbling for the sword at his waist as a choking sound emanated from his throat. Vashodia sighed and brushed past him. She had more important matters to attend to.
She ignored his stuttering denouncements, which grew fainter with each step she took away from him. Boorish man. Why can’t you see that you simply don’t matter at all?
Vashodia marched up to Jasside’s abode and strode in unannounced.
She found the girl seated cross-legged in the center of her main chamber, dressed in lacy black attire that shrouded every bit of flesh below her neck. Long time spent in the sun during the journey to this place had tanned her skin and lightened her hair to the purest blond.
A flower in a clay pot rested before her, bathing in a ray of sunlight, which streamed through a high window. Vashodia could see the filaments of dark energy reaching from Jasside’s brown eyes to the plant, stroking petal to root with delicate brushes. The girl was seeing truly, on a scale so small, most people couldn’t even fathom it.
And her face was full of wonder.
“Marvelous, isn’t it?” Vashodia said.
“Yes, mistress,” replied Jasside. “An incredible feat, this method of crafting sustenance from light and soil.”
Vashodia sat down in a cushioned chair. Energizing, she latched onto a bottle of wine left on a table across the room and floated it over to herself. She didn’t see any glasses, so she decided to make her own. Sparks of stray energy shot out from her hand as she manipulated the atoms into the proper arrangement and shape. A beat later, a perfect wineglass rested in her palm. She poured from the bottle and took a sip.
Jasside grinned. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”
“Naturally. Especially as there were no more homes to make.”
“The settlement is finished, then?”
“Just this morning.”
“Ah, good. Sorry I couldn’t shoulder more of that particular burden. You did, after all, keep me busy with other matters.” Jasside waved towards the flower.
“So I did. And how much progress have you made?”
Jasside laughed, a sound made purely of joy. The kind Vashodia herself didn’t quite know how to conjure. “Oh, I finished last night. Angla organized the daeloth, and they’ve already begun planting. The first harvest should be in a week, so long as they use the crop artifices I gave them correctly. Now, I’m just working on speeding up the cycle.”
Though she let no outward sign of it show, Vashodia was quite impressed by the results. She’d expected Jasside to be at it for a day or two more. And one week from seed to harvest? Unheard of.
Even I struggle to produce such drastic results. It may be time to arrange for another dose of humility to come your way, Jasside.
We can’t be letting your head get too big, now can we?
Vashodia smiled, already pondering possible scenarios. “Good,” she said, standing. “Then perhaps you have time to accompany me to the binding?”
Jasside’s eyes flashed with both worry and excitement. “You’re doing it today?”
“Right now, actually. But if you are busy . . .”
“No.” Jasside jumped to her feet. “I’ll come.”
Together, they strolled out of the house and down the hill to the very center of the settlement. There, a dark obelisk shot up from the ground. Smooth stone rose the height of fifty men, facing each cardinal direction. Right now it was just a tower, but soon . . .
. . . it will be so much more.
A crowd was already gathered at its base, having answered Vashodia’s summons. Among them was Angla, who turned at their approach. “Good afternoon, Mother dearest,” Vashodia said. “Is everything ready?”
“Daughter dearest,” spat Angla. Her eyes shifted over to Jasside. She hesitated a beat longer before adding, “Granddaughter.”
Jasside inclined her head. A measure of respect that made Angla twitch. “Grandmother.”
Vashodia giggled, remembering when that little revelation had dawned on them both. It had been just after their makeshift fleet of rafts had crossed the straits from the empire, landing in the desert region of their soon-to-be-neighbors, the area called the Weskaran Wastes. Both women had been shocked, but Angla had taken the news the hardest. She still didn’t like being reminded of the countless daeloth children she’d had over the centuries. Having one of their offspring constantly nearby, then—someone unquestionably of her own bloodline—must have felt like a
sharp pebble in her shoe.
Vashodia relished having Angla irritated whenever Jasside acknowledged their relation. But when it came to herself, she had forbidden Jasside to call her “aunt.” “Half-aunt” would be a more proper form of address, but that sounded too awkward to fathom. “Mistress” would have to do.
“Yes,” Angla said at last. “Everything is in order. The darkwisps have been arranged and the . . . volunteer . . . knows what is expected of him.”
“Excellent.” Vashodia turned to Jasside. “Now, I just want you to observe. These things aren’t built every day. I don’t know when you’ll get a chance to see it next.”
“Are we planning on building many more?”
Vashodia shrugged. “You never know.”
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“True. But the process is difficult, even for enlightened persons such as ourselves. What would it do for my reputation if you muck up some theoretical future attempt?”
“I see your point,” Jasside said. “I won’t miss a thing.”
Vashodia turned from her apprentice and trotted up the hillside, where the crowd stirred in anticipation. A quick glance across the settlement confirmed that more and more people were converging on the scene, perhaps the entirety of their burgeoning little nation. Daeloth made up the majority of them, but nearly eight hundred mierothi were there as well. Almost all that was left of their species. Most of them were women, and of the three hundred who had been held captive with her mother, not one was without a human male at her side. “Bodyguards” Draevenus had called them. Most, however, had become so much more.
The assembly reached a threshold, and all began to mill about. More glances than not were fixed straight at Vashodia.
Time for the show. It seems they all know that I never disappoint.
“Clear the grounds around the tower, please,” Vashodia said.
Her mother nodded, then shouted out the command. The loiterers dispersed. Angla strode next to her companion, the ever-endearing Harridan Chant, who slipped a familiar arm around her waist. Vashodia found herself alone with but one other soul. She walked up to him, smiling.
“You are prepared?” she asked.
The aging daeloth nodded. “I’ve had a good life. But the little hurts keep adding up, and no amount of healing can make it any better. Don’t want to end my days making messes in my pants and forgetting my own name.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry about such trifles anymore. Your days may not ever end at all.”
“Ruul willing.”
Vashodia snorted out laughter at this.
Before he could change his mind, Vashodia began energizing, pulling in the very limit of her capacity. She wrapped tendrils of power around the daeloth and began lifting him into the air. Higher and higher he rose, until at last he dangled over the pinnacle of the obelisk. She manipulated another strand of energy and split open the stone at the top.
Angry buzzing filled the valley as a thousand darkwisps stirred to life within the tower.
The floating daeloth energized, forcing the ancient creatures into harmonization, even as their snapping strands of power began shredding him to pieces. Vashodia lowered his bleeding body into the mouth of stone.
The sound of his screams echoed throughout the settlement as he disappeared into the obelisk, and Vashodia resealed its stone summit. Silence descended in its wake.
For a mark, nothing happened. The crowd held its breath, Vashodia among them, straining forward for any sign, any motion.
Then a single tremor shook the whole mountain.
The new voltensus had awakened.
Queen Arivana Celandaris of Panisahldron sat among the violet rhododendrons in her palace gardens, plucking out a complicated melody on her harp. Gilding traced vine-like patterns up and down the instrument, with rubies and diamonds that glimmered in the late-afternoon sunlight interspersed throughout. She thought the thing was monstrously large for her adolescent hands but wouldn’t replace it for the world. Her mother had given it to her.
And you don’t throw away gifts from the dead.
Her fingers slipped at the thought, mangling a chord, which drew a hiss from her instructor. Today it was Mariun Trelent . . . or maybe it was Leruna Trelent? Arivana couldn’t distinguish them. Both ladies, from that dull but prestigious household, tended to wear prim, elegant dresses and kept their greying hair tied up in buns.
Whichever one she was, Arivana avoided eye contact, trudging through the rest of the song with as much queenly grace as she could muster.
Which isn’t saying much.
When the final notes had stilled, she pushed the harp forward, handing it off to her handmaiden, Flumere, before standing and taking a bow.
Her instructor clapped only once. “Your technique has come a long way, your majesty.”
“Thank you.” Arivana angled her lips and exhaled, blowing a strand of orange hair out of her face.
“But you lack focus and feeling.”
Arivana’s shoulders slumped. “Sorry.”
“Nonsense,” said her instructor. “You are the queen, not some merchant’s daughter. Do not say you are sorry. Say you will do better next time. Say you will be perfect!”
“But perfection is so hard.”
“The people look to you for inspiration. You cannot afford to be anything less.”
Arivana sighed. “Yes, madam . . .” Abyss! She still wasn’t sure. “ . . . Mariun?”
The woman squeaked indignantly.
“Oh, stop being so hard on the girl, Leruna.”
Arivana turned towards the newcomer, stiffening up out of habit. “Minister Pashams!” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you. I am honored.” She curtsied, spreading the hem of her pink-silk skirts.
The Minister of Gardens bowed. His ornate robes, in official white, red, and gold, swayed with utmost grace as he straightened. The crest of his station, a blooming tree, adorned his left breast. “It is I who am honored, your majesty. And please, call me Tior. You are a princess no longer.”
Oh, how I wish I still were. Arivana fought to hold on to her smile. It was difficult to keep up appearances when she was reminded of how she had come, quite unexpectedly, to be queen at the age of thirteen.
Leruna placed her hands on her hips. “You can’t seriously advise leniency on her, Minister. The girl is far behind on her arts.”
“Not leniency,” Tior said. “Just a drop or two of patience. It’s been barely a year since the assassinations. With three healthy, older siblings, our lovely Arivana couldn’t possibly have foreseen herself being crowned.” He turned his slightly wrinkled but still handsome face down towards her, giving a grandfatherly smile. “Isn’t that right, my dear?”
Arivana nodded. He had the right of it, but she didn’t trust her own voice at the moment. Has it already been a year? When am I supposed to stop stumbling through grief?
“Besides,” continued Tior, “a few mistakes are nothing to get upset about. Flaws are what make life interesting.”
Both Arivana and Leruna gasped at this pronouncement. Among the Panisians, such talk bordered on blasphemy.
Tior stepped closer and gently patted Arivana’s shoulder. “Come, your majesty. Your lessons are done for the day. There is something I wish to discuss with you.”
Unable to refuse him anything after all the unflinching support he’d given her this past year, she let herself be guided away. She checked over her shoulder to make sure that Flumere was following. The handmaiden remained at a respectful distance, however, so as to avoid the appearance of eavesdropping. Arivana actually wouldn’t have minded if she were closer but knew it wasn’t proper. Still, the queen couldn’t say why, but she was comforted by the woman’s constant presence.
They strolled in silence for a time. Arivana listened to the twitter of birds an
d the hum of a breeze, which snaked through the sculpted bushes and trees of the royal gardens. She inhaled the scents of blooming fruits and flowers in a thousand delectable varieties. Multicolor lightglobes sprang to life as evening took hold, spreading their luminescence through branches and vines before landing on the marble walkway at their feet.
The combined effects of the garden soothed her, as Tior must have known they would—his family had been cultivating it for more than a thousand years, after all—and she was finally able to summon a smile again without having to force it.
Minister Pashams at last cleared his throat. “You’ve done well in your duties. You know, for your age and . . . circumstances.”
Is that a compliment? I’m not sure. “Thank you?”
Tior laughed. “The Jeweled Throne has never been an easy place to sit. Our people look to it for guidance, for a true measure of the beauty and artistry that has ever been our nation’s greatest asset.” He waved towards her head. “You have your mother’s perfect facial structure and your father’s striking eyes, and are already the envy of half the women in the world. With time, your skills will flourish, and the other half will fall in line as well.”
Arivana felt heat rushing to her cheeks—those were definitely compliments. “That is most gracious of you . . . Tior. I will do my best to continue improving.”
“I have every confidence that you will. Now, however, there is another, more serious matter I wish to discuss with you.” He gestured towards a nearby bench. “Please.”
She plopped down, spreading her skirts over her knees, and Tior sat next to her. His lips curled into a smile, but his eyes seemed strained. She knew the look. It always came right before adults started talking about a difficult subject. “We need to talk about the war,” he said.
Arivana swallowed hard, shivering despite the warmth seeping up from the artifices built into the bench. “Has something gone wrong?”
“Not at all. The coalition forces continue to secure new ground in Sceptre with each passing week, and our losses remain low.” He lifted a hand and conjured three orbs of yellow fire, spinning them in a blazing dance. “They have few casters of their own and cannot hope to contend with our sorcery or our enchanted weaponry.”
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