Shadow of the Void

by Nathan Garrison

  She turned to leave but heard a sound behind her. A whimper. She sighed. “Of course he’d have one.”

  She tramped to the back of the laboratory and pushed through a door into a bedchamber. It was empty, but the sound came again, drawing her towards another door farther in. This one was made of metal and had a sturdy lock. She marched up to it, shattering the lock with a single wave of energy, and pulled it open.

  A woman huddled inside. Chained up. Bruised. But, unsurprisingly, lacking in dirt or grime. Vashodia laughed. “He always did like to keep his things clean.”

  The woman jerked at the voice. She lifted her head and stared in obvious awe at Vashodia. “Who are you?”

  “Today? An executioner.”

  A glimmer of hope splashed across the woman’s features. “You mean he’s . . . dead?”

  “He’s less dead than he is, how shall I put it, unmade.”

  “Gone is gone.” She spat into the corner of the closet. “You’ll hear no cry of mourning from me.”

  The woman stumbled to her feet, rattling chains and pained groans competing to be the loudest sound in the room. She lifted her arms forward in supplication. “Are you here to save me?”

  Vashodia tilted her head. “What an odd thing to say.”

  “Ouch!” cried Arivana. She pulled her throbbing hand back from the stem. “Stupid thorns.”

  She brought the pricked tip of her finger to hover a hand’s width from her face and studied the wound. A single drop of blood bloomed, like the cap of a tiny crimson mushroom. So small, yet it still hurt like the abyss. “Gardening. Pah! I’ve had enough of this.”

  “So it seems,” said Tior from behind her.

  As promised, he’d been her constant companion this last week. She’d performed a cursory inspection of the barracks, presided over an art contest for children of the great houses, watched skylights in celebration of another pointless festival, and, of course, continued with all facets of her education. It seemed as if he’d not left her side even once. He set others to watch her as she slept—­­people, he’d told her, whom he trusted implicitly—­but since he was present from when she woke in the morning until she drifted off once more to sleep, he might as well have tied a cord between their wrists.

  She stood, brushing soil from her dress. It was a sturdy ensemble, long and thick and layered in shades of brown and grey. Made for work in a garden but still pretty in its own way. She’d always thought beauty could be found in the usefulness of a thing. As it was not a popular opinion to have, though, she mostly kept it to herself.

  Tior reached towards her. “Here, let me heal that.”

  “No,” Arivana said, jerking her hand away. “It’s the fool who grabs a rose without heed of its thorns. Pain is a lesson. And this fool, it seems, needs all the instruction she can garner.”

  Tior stepped back, quirking a smile. “Wise words, for one so young.”

  Arivana shrugged. “It’s just something my father used to say.” She lifted her finger again, hissing a breath though the sharp ache. “Never thought I would experience it quite so literally.”

  “Well, then, since you’ve decided to endure a penance of self-­imposed torment for your folly, I don’t think it would be fair to test your horticultural skills any further today.”

  “You mean we can be done?” She peeked over her shoulder at the hundred towers rising to the south, hope rising with the thought that she might soon be in her bath, so Flumere could wipe the grime from the day’s lessons away. Such hope had nothing to do with the fact that it was the one place Tior would not accompany her.

  Of course it doesn’t.

  “I’m afraid not,” Tior said, smashing her hope on the ground like a porcelain vase. “Demonstrating your botanical knowledge requires no use of your hands, does it not?”

  She slumped over, sighing, not even trying to hide her opinion on the matter. “I suppose not.”

  The minister began up the path, and Arivana followed without the need for him to beckon. She already felt enough of a child in his presence. She couldn’t stand the thought of another scolding.

  They left the training area behind, sashaying along one of the private pathways. Arivana saw numerous guardsmen tucked into every corner, watching all angles of approach. Tior said he hadn’t increased the number of them, in keeping with his plan to avoid attention, but she swore there were a lot more than usual lately. Maybe it was the armor, which, through some sorcerous means, blended in with their backgrounds, or perhaps it was just her own wariness driven into hyperactivity by the looming threat of assassination, but she couldn’t recall ever noticing their presence so acutely before. Her heightened state of alertness was beginning to drain her, and part of her wished that her unknown enemy would just try it already, so she could relax.

  They turned and entered a grand veranda overlooking the gardens proper. Arivana caught the eye of one particular guard through the slit of his visor. Even from that narrowed view, she could tell he was young, bare years separating them. She thought she saw a faint crinkle around his eyes. It took her a moment to translate the motion to the hidden parts of his face and realize he was smiling. She blushed, returning the gesture, after which they both looked hastily away.

  She let herself be led to the veranda’s edge. Below them, plants of nearly every variety in the world blossomed in curving rows between sections of the meandering, stone walkway. All the ones considered pleasant to the senses, at least. Tior pointed to one grouping of bushes. He didn’t need to say any more. Arivana knew what was expected of her.

  “Azalea,” she said. “Flowering shrubs that typically come in pinks and reds, native to Phelupar. They prefer the shade of trees and bloom annually.”

  Tior nodded, then pointed to a pond.

  “Lotus. An aquatic perennial flower with a variety of uses across horticultural, culinary, and artistic disciplines, native to Yusan.”

  He pointed again.

  “Orchid. Another perennial with almost as many different types as there are grains of sand on the shore. They can be found just about everywhere but exist in greatest concentration in the jungles on our southern border.”

  He pointed again, and again, and again, and each time she gave the right answer. He’d been quizzing her hard the last week. It seemed like his wealth of knowledge had finally decided to stay put in her mind.

  At last, he lowered his hand. He patted her on the shoulder, giving the barest nod of approval. “Very good, my queen. Very good indeed. Now, can you tell me why it is so important for you to know all this?”

  Arivana twisted her lips in thought. This wasn’t one of the things he’d taught her. Never explicitly anyway. He must want her to draw her own conclusions. No—­he wanted her to draw his conclusions in her own way.

  She took a deep breath. “I think it’s for political purposes?” She stared at him, questioningly. When he did not interrupt, she went on. “Yes, if I receive a gift of flowers from a visiting dignitary, or wear petals or their fragrance at a gathering of important ­people, or something like that, it would be highly embarrassing if I, the Queen of Panisahldron, the supposed embodiment of all things beautiful, could not correctly identify them.”

  Tior sighed. “A good answer. Only, there is no ‘supposed’ about it. You must be what your ancestors have been for the last five millennia, what the world expects of you, and, most importantly, what our ­people need from you. A symbol of beauty for all to look upon, the standard against which all must measure themselves.” He smiled. “It has already begun. The latest trend among teenaged girls in the city is to dye their hair in shades of the sunset.” He gestured towards a loose strand of her hair. “Some grown women are even adopting the style.”

  Blushing, she looked away. But that only brought her gaze in line with the young guardsman she’d noticed earlier. And he was staring straight at her. He quickly looked away but
brought his eyes right back a beat later. Arivana failed to stifle a giggle.

  “What is it?” Tior asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just . . .” She paused, for she did not want to get the young man in trouble. She glanced past him to the sun setting over the protective wall on the south side of the gardens, looking for some excuse.

  Now, to her horror, she found one.

  Figures began appearing at the top of the wall. Five, ten, a score of them, dressed in dark, hooded cloaks with veils concealing their faces. They leapt down from a height of twenty paces, touching lightly upon the garden soil as if sinking into a pool, then shot forward, directly towards her, at incredible speed. Bare steel filled every hand.

  Tior must have seen the fright on her face, for he swung around. She heard a growl sound from his throat. “Up arms!” he called. “Protect the queen!”

  Guardsmen flocked out of their hidden places, more than she remembered counting on the way in. The numbers looked equal, but Arivana shook in fear. The men advancing moved faster than humanly possible. She didn’t need to be told that they were under the influence of heavy sorcerous enhancement.

  Her protectors had no time to form ranks. Crossbows twanged from the intruders. Most bolts deflected off armor, but one guard crumpled, choking and gurgling, as one caught him in the throat. Another crashed backwards at the impact from four simultaneous hits.

  Arivana rushed to Tior’s side, her breathing ragged, clutching him like a toddler. She’d never seen bloodshed before. Her earlier wish to get this attack over with came back to haunt her, and she cried tears of bitter fear.

  “Stay behind me,” Tior barked, shoving her. She continued gripping him, burying her face in his back, but as the cacophony rose, and men screamed in pain, she slowly edged her head around so she could see the fight. But her mind could not comprehend all the chaos at once, instead processing each frame of violence individually.

  A guard released an arrow from his wrath-­bow. The glowing red missile streaked over a flower bed and erupted into a gout of virulent flame, immolating two attackers who, somehow, trudged onwards a few steps more.

  Another guard thrust his shock-­lance forward, activating it. Sparking tendrils reached out and caught three men in its cone. The one in the center froze, twitching. The two on the edges spun free. They converged on the guard from each side, scything curved sword towards him. A sickening amount of blood sprayed across a row of white lilies.

  A man swung a two-­handed axe, knocking two guards to the ground. He lunged atop them, stomping a boot down to crush one skull like a melon and chopping through the neck of the other.

  The young guardsman who’d been looking at her parried a sword thrust from one attacker, then spun to bash another with his shield. A third man pounced, daggers aimed for his throat, but the guard dodged at the last moment and skewered his assailant’s groin with an outthrust blade.

  A beast of a man, hands slick with blood, lost hold of his spiked mace. He kicked it as it fell, sending it smashing into the knee of an advancing guard, staggering him. The man gripped the guard by his pauldrons and heaved him a dozen paces. He crashed into a tree trunk, bones and armor crunching like twigs.

  Arivana blinked as the scene seemed to pause before her. Three guardsmen were left standing, along with ten of the assassins. All of them panting, drenched in blood. One of the cloaked men slumped over, and now there were only nine.

  “Back to me,” Tior commanded. The three guards backpedaled until abreast of her and the minister. The attackers advanced.

  Tior took one step forward, then lifted his hands. Light began filling them. A shock of worry went through the assailants and, with a cry, they dashed forward. But whatever sorcerous augmentation they’d been blessed with must have waned, for their charge seemed pitifully slow compared to their earlier movements.

  Tior’s conjured light flared, filling the whole of the garden around them. Arivana turned away and covered her face to protect herself from the blinding brilliance. She felt pulses of energy thump through the air. Heard bodies crash to the ground.

  The light diminished, and Arivana hazarded a peek. The nine would-­be assassins lay on their backs, knocked over like sunflower stalks, each with a gaping, smoking hole in the center of his chest. Her nose and lungs filled with the distinct scent of burning human flesh. She struggled to calm her racing heart and quivering. She spun away, breathing through her mouth to try to settle her roiling stomach.

  “It’s done, then,” Tior said, weariness evident in his voice.

  Arivana couldn’t respond. Facing away from the others, she was the only to notice someone step out from behind a hedgerow thirty paces away. Tight, dark clothes, with hood and mask as the others, but a figure most decidedly female. The woman stalked towards them, slim rapier in one hand. The other glowed with magical light.

  “Behind us!” Arivana screamed.

  Two of the guardsmen jumped in front of her at once, and Tior lunged to their side a beat later. Too late, though. A barrage of light, sharp and fast like arrows, careened towards the minister.

  He lifted a hand, conjuring a wall of light, but it was hastily made and unable to do more than deflect the attack. The sorcerous projectiles veered sideways—­straight into the two guardsmen. Dozens of fresh holes ripped through each of their bodies.

  The woman swiped a hand, slashing a ray of energy across Tior’s defenses and popping his shield with a sizzling crack. Arivana toppled backwards, and the minister plopped down at her side.

  This is it. We’re done. I’m so sorry I failed you, Mother . . .

  She heard stomping feet and managed to lift her head. An armored figure lunged for the woman. The last guardsman. His helmet had come off at some point, and she saw the full face of the eye-­wandering youth at last. Her only thought, as tears rolled down her cheeks, was that he was far too young to die. Especially for me.

  He jabbed his sword, and the woman met it with her rapier, turning it expertly. She spun, smashing her elbow into his jaw. He staggered and reached out with a wild swing, but she cartwheeled away. The woman sheathed her blade and thrust both hands forward, filled with light. The guard rose into the air. She turned her hands outwards and clawed them apart.

  The guard split in half.

  The legs and waist flew off the veranda, bloody intestines flapping madly behind. The rest tumbled across the ground, coming straight towards Arivana. She clenched, rolling away, as he crashed into her.

  Tior, however, had regained his feet. With fist held high, he formed what she thought looked like a hammer of light, massive and raging. He brought it down on the woman.

  She put hands over head, raising a shield of her own. The hammer bounced off it, and she winced. Tior pounded her again, and she cried out, falling to a knee. A third time, and her shield shattered. The woman crashed down, her head smacking the ground, and lay still.

  Arivana rolled back over and sat up. The young guard’s head and shoulder were between her legs. He wheezed. His eyes met hers, and her heart broke.

  Tior had staggered over to the unconscious woman. He bent over, pulling off the mask.

  “Well,” he said, “I suppose this explains her odd behavior lately.”

  Arivana glanced only briefly, confirming what she’d already known in the deepest part of her soul.

  Claris. How could you?

  She bent her head, rivers flowing freely from her eyes. The young man’s lips started to move, but she heard only mumbling.

  “Wh-­what’s that?” she managed to say between sobs.

  He ground his teeth, sucking in a rasping breath. “So . . . beautiful.”

  She cradled his head, forcing herself to watch, to honor him, as the life left his eyes. The finger she’d pricked on the rose stem, a lifetime ago now, peeked out from behind his neck, still sporting a single dried spot of blood.

  CHA
PTER 6

  “Put your arm in mine, Draevenus. No, not like that. Hold it bent and up around your chest. There, doesn’t that feel nice? Now, keep your eyes forward and greet anyone you walk past with a nod, or a handshake if you simply must converse. If they’re dressed nicer than us, address them as sir. That will probably be most everybody. Don’t speak to the women—­no, I’ll do that if the need arises—­and definitely do not touch any of them. Got all that? Good. Off we go, then.”

  Mevon watched in amusement as Zorvanya schooled Draevenus on the intricacies of being a respectable citizen in these parts. He’d thought they’d done well picking up most behaviors along the way, but with things changing as often as from village to village, she’d taught them a great deal they hadn’t already known. An education they were both grateful for.

  “Come along, servant boy,” Zorvanya said, grinning over her shoulder.

  Mevon smiled, hefting the pack as they stepped into motion. He kept his eyes averted. Down, but still alert. They’d yet to enter a town this large, and they didn’t know what to expect. If things went bad, they’d have far more than a single tavern full of men to contend with.

  They rounded the last bend in the road, and the town walls came into sight. Striking, for the fact that it had walls at all. The town by the lake, where they’d met Zorvanya, had been one of the largest they’d seen since the farthest northern reaches. This place was bigger, almost a city.

  “How much farther until your friend’s place again?” Draevenus asked.

  “If we stay here tonight, we’ll be there before the next morning is gone,” Zorvanya said. “It’s a bit steep, but I’m sure the two of you aren’t adverse to a little climb.”

  “Not at all,” Draevenus said. “But does that mean there’s an inn? An actual inn?”

  She laughed. “Of course.”

  “With real beds?”