Shadow of the Void

by Nathan Garrison

  The emissary stepped in front of him, putting a hand on the king’s chest. “I don’t think—­”

  The other man grabbed the emissary’s wrist and jerked it away. He pulled their faces so close together their noses touched. The silent man shook his head.

  The emissary lowered his eyes.

  “Enough of the theatrics,” the king said. He pushed between the two men, prying them apart with force not born of touch or muscle. Hunched over, leaning on a cane, he brought his eyes up to Vashodia. “May I see your hands?”

  The mierothi stepped forward softly. Jasside could only wonder at her compliance. No doubt Vashodia had something to gain from this exchange, but she could not figure out what. She watched as the king took the clawed hands in his palms, gently rubbing the dark scales.

  “Mierothi,” the king said. “The word has almost become synonymous with ghosts and nightmares in my country. With fables of the darkest kind. Yet, here you stand, solid and real as the rest of us.”

  “Strange how some tales grow in the telling, becoming entirely separate beasts from the source of their inspiration.”

  Jasside hid a smile. Sometimes, the tales get it right.

  The king released the small hands and leaned once more on his cane. “Thank you, my child.”

  “Satisfied?” Vashodia said.

  The king nodded. “I do have to wonder, though.”

  “About what?”

  “Why it is, exactly, that you left the Veiled Empire.”

  “Oh, it’s simple enough, really. We were no longer welcome.”

  Something sparkled in the king’s eyes. “Lost the war, did you?”

  Vashodia laughed. “Me? I never lose.”

  The king frowned. “Then . . . ?”

  “Oh, let them be, Daryn,” the queen said, having laid herself out upon a lounging couch. “They’ve done enough for us already. They don’t deserve to have their entire life stories dragged out upon the ground for you to inspect. Besides”—­she grabbed a pitcher and cup from a low table next to the couch—­“we haven’t even offered them refreshments yet.”

  Vashodia smiled, strolling over to the queen. “How gracious of you, Halice. But there is no need—­I’ve brought my own.” Never one to miss an opportunity to impress, Vashodia energized and formed her own crystal goblet from thin air.

  “That’s a neat trick,” the queen said, although her tone indicated “neat” was even more effusive than she planned. She poured. Vashodia sat opposite her on the couch, and they clinked glasses together. “A shame we don’t have more of that around here.”

  The king sighed. “Knew I never should have married a northerner.”

  “Would you rather have your last wife back from the grave? A stoic who likely died from her own revulsion to any form of pleasure?”

  “No. Abyss above, anything but that.”

  “Then stop complaining and get on with the rest of your business.”

  “What business is that?”

  “Nothing much,” Vashodia interrupted. “But I do believe you owe my apprentice here your most heartfelt thanks.”

  The king turned, glancing at Jasside. “Why?”

  “Because it was she alone who . . . took care of the matter.”

  His eyes flared, and he saw her as if for the first time. “You?”

  Jasside had grown accustomed to reactions like this. Being in Vashodia’s shadow, she either had to embrace her role or reject it. It was far easier to just go along with things.

  “Yes,” Jasside said. “Me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There were nine shadow beasts in that swamp, creatures of nightmare and war. Most had been wiped out, but a few must have slipped away. I destroyed them.”

  The king’s eyes still bored into her with confused scrutiny.

  Jasside sighed as she energized. Some ­people have no imagination. Like her mistress did before her, she formed a goblet in her hand, then waved a finger at the wine bottle, forming a funnel in the space between them. Red liquid floated up, spiraling through the air to slosh gently into her cup.

  She took a sip. “Any more questions?”

  Jasside had expected the move to amuse the man, or at least placate him. She wasn’t ready for the storm of rage that took over his visage.

  “Just one.” He held up a finger, quivering.

  “When are you ­people going to get off my land?”

  Jasside felt her heartbeat quicken. Her breath became a thing of effort. After all we’ve done . . .

  The queen jumped up and began shouting at the king. The emissary moved to his lord’s side, throwing arguments back in her face. The king simply stared at Jasside.

  She glanced at Vashodia, but the mierothi remained on the couch. She drained her cup, laughing, with her gaze locked on the trio, and poured another. Jasside knew, then, that she was on her own.

  Another test.

  But not one I’m sure I know how to pass.

  She studied the king and the emissary, recognizing them as the obstacles to be overcome. Their stubbornness infuriated her. Their hatred of all things sorcerous was irrational in the face of the practicality of the situation. It was a belief set in stone, unmovable by any words she might say—­so that tactic seemed pointless to try.

  Think, damn it . . .

  In the deepest part of her, Jasside clutched at a solution. She dismissed it at first, for she couldn’t fathom following through with it, but it came back stronger, more logical, each time it ran through her mind.

  She lifted a finger, drawing in more power, until she felt bursting at the seams with darkness. She traced lines around the two men with her eyes.

  It would be so easy. The obstacles could be removed just . . . like . . .

  Her hand was raised, fingers poised to snap: a gesture she’d trained herself to use when releasing a prepared conjuration of energy.

  She’d been less than a heartbeat away from letting it all go.

  Instead, Jasside stepped back, pulling both arms in close. She shook. It was bad enough, even entertaining the idea, but she hated herself all the more for letting such stray thoughts overwhelm her conscious actions.

  Power ever begs to dominate. It was something she’d learned from Vashodia, not as a lesson itself but rather a tenet that weaved through and around all other lessons. She thought she had shielded herself against it but now knew that no defense ever holds for long without a strong arm propping it up. She’d grown complacent, and her victory over the shadow beasts had made her arrogant. The combination proved a potent concoction that had nearly drowned her in its poison.

  Jasside took a breath. She glanced over at Vashodia. So this is what you’ve been dealing with your whole existence. A few thousand years of it, and no one to tell you what the limits are, what should or should not be done. No one to teach you the value of every single life.

  Her heart, for the first time, went out to Vashodia. She’d made a vow, once, while overlooking a barrow of countless dead, that she would help heal the darkness that held sway in her mistress’s soul. She hadn’t been doing a very good job of it lately. There is a light in all of us. I just have to find it in her and, somehow, fan the flames until it burns bright again.

  But first I have to make sure the light in me is never dimmed as it almost was today.

  Jasside smiled to herself, set in purpose once more. A difficult road lay ahead of her, but she now knew what to keep watch for in herself and her mistress as well.

  As her introspection faded, reality set in. The debate was still in full swing. If anything, it had become more heated. Vashodia remained disengaged. Jasside realized she still had to handle this herself . . . and that perhaps there were words that might actually make a difference.

  She thought about all the ­people she knew who excelled at settling arg
uments, at diplomacy. One face popped into her mind almost immediately. “What would Yandumar do?”

  The king stepped towards her, silencing the others. “What did you say?”

  Jasside tried to hide her surprise. “I said, ‘What would Yandumar do?’ ”

  “Yandumar, eh?”

  “He’s a friend of ours, you see, and I couldn’t help but think he’d be useful in resolving this situation.”

  The king looked up and to the left, smiling faintly. “Did he ever find his daughter?”

  Jasside furrowed her brow. “It was his son. And yes.” She shivered. “He found him.”

  “Had to check,” the king said, eyes glimmering with vigor. “You should have told me you were friends with Yandumar in the first place. Of course I’ll let you stay!”

  Oh . . . of course.

  No matter how hard she tried, Arivana could not stop the trembling. It had taken all of her effort just to limit it to her hands. They fumbled around in her lap as she sat once more on her throne in the council chamber, waiting for the unimaginable.

  “You know what you must do,” Tior said, leaning close to her ear.

  She nodded even though she knew it was no question. Her role in all this had been driven into her like a nail into wood, and Minister Pashams was the hammer.

  Arivana lifted a shaking finger to her eye, wiping away another of the tears that never seemed to stop coming. Flumere had been forced to reapply powders to her face three times as they were getting ready. Eventually, the woman had given up and wiped it all away.

  If only this mess could be cleaned up so easily. She probably appeared like a sickly commoner, but she didn’t care.

  Sometimes, being a queen seemed the worst job in the world.

  Tior straightened, then announced, “I call to order this special judiciary meeting. Bring in the accused.”

  The circle in the very center of the floor shifted away, and a platform rose in its place with a clear, flat board, standing at a slight angle. Strapped to it was Claris Baudone.

  The trembling in Arivana’s hands intensified.

  Tior cleared his throat. “Now then, to the evidence . . .”

  He spoke at length, but Arivana could barely stand to listen. Agents of the crown had somehow seized documents with Claris’s personal seal, linking her with surety to the other attackers, who had all been identified as expatriates from Fashesh. War dodgers.

  Filth.

  He also produced a lesser groundskeeper and two other ­people who happened to be in the gardens at the time of the attack. Arivana remembered them all, but only as one remembers a dream. They each told how they came upon the scene and ran for help, picked up a weapon and stood guard, or comforted their queen, who had clearly been in shock. As they spoke, the dream sharpened, becoming reality. Arivana wished, now, that she had plugged her ears.

  After they had gone, Tior recounted his own experience. He seemed to notice many details that she had missed at the time and told the tale with a grim adherence to fact. He didn’t mention how it made him feel. Such an approach would undoubtedly have caused a resurgence of all the horror she’d gone through at the time, and with far more potency than had the words of the others. For that, Arivana was almost thankful.

  But all too soon, his words dwindled. He turned to her with eyes both hard and soft at once. “And now, your majesty, it is time for your testimony.”

  Arivana stood. She felt a sudden calmness take over, which both surprised and gladdened her. This was nothing but a performance, and she knew all her lines by heart. Her voice firm, she said, “My own account of events coincides with that of the Minister of Gardens. All he has said, as far as I am aware, is the truth. Claris Baudone, in concert with the twenty deceased Fasheshish men, attacked me with obvious intent to kill, and it was only by the brave actions of Tior Pashams and the ten guardsmen that I am still alive.”

  “Have you anything else to add?” Tior asked.

  “No.”

  Arivana sat back down. She hadn’t missed a single word of the script. One performance down. One to go.

  The shaking in her hands resumed.

  Tior, at last, turned towards the center of the room. Frowning grimly, he said, “Does the accused have anything to say in her defense?”

  Silence engulfed the chamber. Arivana fixed her eyes on the floor.

  But the silence stretched for ten beats, twenty, a mark. Arivana heard a murmur among those gathered. She felt her gaze forcing its way upwards, until at last she peered into the face of a woman she had once loved as family.

  It did not look as she expected.

  There was no hate, no rage, not a whisper of defiance. If anything, Claris’s skin seemed slack. Her eyes returned the stare, but lazily, almost as if she were bored with the whole process. Almost. The tears streaming down the woman’s cheeks, strong as rivers, belied the otherwise-­complete image of apathy. Arivana had no idea what to make of it at all.

  After what seemed an eternity, Claris gently shook her head.

  “Then the testimonies are complete,” Tior said. “It is now time for judgment.”

  The ministers all activated their voting spheres, as they had the last time Arivana had been here. But this time, they weren’t after some stupid law. They were after justice. After blood.

  Five of the six rolled into the center within ten beats of the announcement. Two glowed red. The other three were green. Rather than a simple yes or no, however, this time they stood for guilty or not guilty. Arivana’s heart jumped as she remembered that four greens would see the woman go free.

  She looked up. The last sphere was held in the hands of a man she didn’t recognize. She knew, however, that he belonged to House Baudone. He must have been the one to step up into Claris’s position after her . . . demise.

  Surely he’ll vote to save his kin. Then my second performance won’t be needed at all.

  The thought gave her a strange sort of hope. Strange, because she didn’t know she actually wanted Claris to live. Until now. Despite everything, the woman was still the closest thing to family she had left, and losing her would make Arivana lonelier than she could imagine.

  She watched as the man from House Baudone sent his voting sphere forward. It touched the others.

  It glowed red.

  Arivana’s hope died from one breath to the next. She knew what had to happen now.

  Tior turned to her once more. “In the case of a tie, the ruler of our great nation must cast the deciding vote.”

  She closed her eyes and nodded. Somehow, it seemed, he had known it would come to this. He’d preached of the dangers of letting assassins run free. The respect her family would lose in the sight of every citizen. The unrest it would cause. The bloodshed.

  Gasping in a breath, she said, as quickly as she could, “I vote guilty.”

  Tior gave her a sad smile before facing the room. “The vote is settled. The accused is found guilty. As is our way, punishment is left in the hands of the betrayed.”

  Her final performance for the night. This, more than anything else, had been drilled into her mind beforehand. There could only be one penalty for traitors.

  Death.

  “I sentence Claris Baudone . . .” she took a breath. Then two. The trembling came back. Her performance was forgotten. “I sentence her to deepest prison for the rest of her days.”

  Tior’s eyes flared for a beat. His hands gripped the edge of his family pod, turning white with rage although his face showed no other signs of emotion.

  Arivana left her seat and strode promptly from the room as the platform holding Claris descended to the bowels of the tower. A descent from which she would never rise. She pushed through the doors, out into the hall, dragging Flumere behind her.

  As soon as the chamber disappeared around the first corner, Arivana hiked up her skirts and ran
. She made it to the lift, up to the top of her tower, and into her bedchamber before she broke down crying.

  Her handmaiden sat on the bed beside her as she bawled into a pillow. The woman patted her gently on the shoulder. It didn’t help. She needed more than that just now. Arivana flung herself into Flumere, wrapping her arms around her like a constrictor and burying her face in the woman’s chest.

  For one beat, Flumere sat like a frozen log. The moment stretched. Her handmaiden still did not move.

  Arivana lifted her soggy face, staring into the older woman’s eyes. “Please,” she said. “Please, can’t you just hold me?”

  With a trembling lip, Flumere gave the briefest of nods, then brought her arms around Arivana and squeezed.

  Tassariel stepped in among the pedestals. One hundred years, and she would finally be allowed to meet her god. Her stomach fluttered, and she fought to control her breathing. As intended—­as had everyone before her—­she was walking into the encounter blind, with little knowledge of what to expect. Her imagination ran wild with the possibilities.

  The flowing folds of her simple ritual robe swished awkwardly around her ankles. She wasn’t used to attire so loose. She made sure to keep her steps measured, solemn, resisting the urge to skip or prance along. At last, she came to the center of the circle, firmed up her spine, and waited.

  All twelve members of the Valynkar High Council were present. Even Gilshamed. She hadn’t known he’d resumed his duties. After their spat in Voren’s tomb, she wasn’t sure she’d ever see him again. His unexpected appearance disturbed her for some reason though she could not say why. Too many things pulled at her attention, threatening to shatter the frail solemnity of the occasion. Figuring out her uncle would have to wait.

  Inarius, an ancient-­looking man and leader of the council, stood on his pedestal directly in front of her. All the others followed suit. He lifted his arms, casting a warm gaze down upon her. “And so,” he began, “we have gathered here to witness and espouse the first holy visitation of this obedient servant, our friend and kin, Tassariel of the martial calling.”

  As one, the others chanted, “Welcome, daughter of Elos.”