Shadow of the Void

by Nathan Garrison

  Her heart skipped a beat as everything suddenly became real, became now. Somehow, she managed to smile.

  “As we have with all our children before,” Inarius continued, “we send you now to commune with our god, to bask in his light and his glory, to absorb his wisdom and his power. Enter into his presence with an open mind and a humble heart, and your time with him will be a cherished thing indeed.”

  Tassariel dipped her head in supplication. “My soul is ready to receive this most holy gift.”

  “Then let our shepherd take your hand and guide you through to our god’s embrace.”

  She squinted, feeling someone land beside her. Golden light glowed in a ring around them. She turned, staring into Gilshamed’s eyes as his wings stood erect behind him. He put out his hand.

  “Are you ready, niece?”

  She hesitated, blurting out in a harsh whisper before she could stop herself, “What are you even doing here?”

  If he was surprised by the question, he did a good job of hiding it. “I’ve resumed my duties as a member of the council.”

  “After all this time? Why now?”

  “In a way, I have you to thank. Our conversation in the crypt forced me to begin thinking about things outside myself. About the greater good, and how little I’ve been doing to further it since I’ve been back. It may not amount to much in the end, but working within this system—­to change it if I can—­will be better than the nothing I’d accomplish elsewise.”

  “Yes, but are you sure you’re the most qualified person to be doing this? I mean, you and Elos . . . ?”

  “He and I have to come to an . . . understanding. Believe me, when it comes to being your guide, I have all that it takes.” Gilshamed smiled wryly, grunting. “And more.”

  Tassariel took a deep breath and nodded. She placed her hand at last into his waiting palm.

  She felt Gilshamed energize, just the barest amount, and the others around the room did the same. She waited patiently as the disparate pulses of energy slowly came into sync and finally snapped together as one. Gilshamed gasped softly and shuddered.

  “Now,” he said. “We fly.”

  She unfurled her wings. The lavender light competed with his golden aura for dominance. The resulting interplay of color shimmered like the sun off the sea, hypnotizing her.

  They both angled their faces up towards the starlit void and launched into the air.

  Hand in hand, they lifted skyward, the air caressing them as they ascended. The pedestals below fell away into murky shadow, and the tops of the great pillars came level with them. Gilshamed led her to land on a small glass platform, suspended by ropes of ancient magic to the twelve edifices around them. He dismissed his wings, and Tassariel mimicked him. Without their glow, she couldn’t see the glass at their feet and felt as if she were standing on nothing at all. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

  “Nervous?” Gilshamed said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Good.”

  “Is it really going to be that bad?”

  He wagged a finger at her. “No prying. Blind faith, remember?”

  She grimaced. “And so my own words come back to haunt me. Thanks, uncle. You’re really putting me at ease.”

  “Is that what you wish me to do? Very well, then. This will be an experience you never forget.”

  “That didn’t help.”

  Gilshamed laughed, turning his back to her and peering at the sky. She followed his gaze. Among the stars smeared across the night now flared a single brilliant light. The Eye of Elos, peering down. Gilshamed began to frown.

  “Something the matter?” she asked.

  “We’ll find out shortly.”

  Gilshamed, still harmonized with the others despite the distance—­a testament to his will and power—­pulled in energy in amounts Tassariel had never even dreamed of. The air thrummed, and her skin tingled. And still he gathered more.

  She winced, shielding her eyes as the pooled energy seemed to start leaking from his very body as rays of light. So close, she felt pain from their passing and wondered how a single person could hold so much and not be consumed.

  With a jolt, the rays coalesced into a single beam, arcing through the night towards the resting place of their god. All but one, that is. This last ray, tiny but virulent, touched her chest, seeming to connect with her very soul. Heat surged through her.

  Pain, like a flame’s caress, wracked every fiber of her being.

  She gritted her teeth. “Is it . . . supposed . . . to hurt this much?”

  Gilshamed did not answer. He seemed enwreathed in a swirling whorl of energy, light that blinds, power overwhelming. She staggered to his side and peered at his face.

  His jaw hung open in terror.

  Something is very wrong.

  Tassariel grasped his shoulder, shaking him. “Stop this, Gilshamed! It isn’t supposed to be this way!”

  His eyes swung to her. Only for a beat, but she saw in them . . . helplessness.

  Fear drove Tassariel to her knees.

  Gilshamed cried out, a shout of anger and frustration and raw force of will. The power around them seemed to ebb, to wane. And with a shock of silence, it vanished.

  He, too, slumped to one knee, panting desperately, a look of weariness in his visage she’d not seen since he’d first returned with Lashriel and the others. Whatever had happened, it had drained him, body and soul.

  Tassariel reached out to him. “Are you all right?”

  “I . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never meant for this to—­”

  Power exploded outward.

  Tassariel rocked backwards, and her vision blackened.

  She came to a moment later, falling.

  The floor far below grew closer by the beat. The figures on the ground, heads craned to the sky, became larger and more distinct, and she could soon make out the horrified look on their faces. She shook loose the lightness in her head, then flexed her back to unfurl her wings.

  Nothing happened.

  She tried again, with the same result.

  Panic set in. A chill filled her, taking up residence in the space once occupied by the ever-­present warmth of her ethereal wings. A voice spoke. She knew, somehow, that it came from within her.

  But the voice was not her own.

  “So,” it said, “this is what a body feels like. It seems I had forgotten.”

  The ground came up to meet her, and she knew no more.

  PART II

  CHAPTER 7

  Draevenus peered down the trail behind him as he waited for his companions. Zorvanya hadn’t been joking about the climb. The ascent had lasted all morning, carved switchbacks up a rocky mountainside bringing them to where the air chilled to the bone, borne on winds that snapped his cloak about him like a banner. The town they’d left peeked out from behind a hill, and the hollow where they’d spent a bitter, silent night rested just this side of it. He smiled, remembering when the shaman went to tend to Mevon’s wounds, only to find nothing but faint scars and smears of drying blood.

  It was the only amusement the previous night had brought.

  Movement below caught his eye. Zorvanya, panting as she struggled to keep up with Draevenus. A quaint effort, especially considering how much both he and Mevon were holding back. If he were willing to divulge his true being to her, he could move like lightning. Mevon had often kept up a jog all day during their journey, a pace that equaled most men’s sprint, but he remained in the rear to guard her back. Still, the urgency in her steps was appreciated, for while no one from the town had given chase, that they could tell, they all thought it best not to take any chances.

  Draevenus turned from them, eying something farther up the trail. The reason
he had stopped in the first place. Set in a recess beneath an overhang of yellow stone sat a yurt not unlike the one they’d found Zorvanya in. The differences were small but telling. Once-­bright colors faded into browns and greys, and many parts of the outer hide layer sagged or flapped freely in the wind. A small garden lay beside it, wilted and overgrown with weeds.

  Can the answers I seek truly be found here?

  He shook his head, despair holding strong because of what he saw before him but hope still scratching away at his mind, unable to stay buried for long. Ruul was closer than ever. He could feel it. A dark presence lingered just beyond a horizon that never seemed to grow any nearer, but now he sensed what lay beyond with something close to clarity. He quivered faintly with excitement.

  He waited impatiently a few marks until his companions hiked to his position. He let Zorvanya catch her breath and take a single swig of water before insistently asking her, “Is this the place?”

  “Yes,” she said, wiping moisture from her lips. She bent down, groaning as she stretched, then straightened with a smile. “Come,” she said. “I’ll introduce you to Mother Poya.”

  Draevenus gestured to the narrow dirt path, and Zorvanya took the lead. Mevon followed close behind her.

  As the former Hardohl passed him, he noticed the forlorn look on his face and realized the man had not said a word since the incident the evening before. Draevenus, too relieved that the night had not ended in bloodshed—­well, not massive bloodshed, as he had feared it would—­had not bothered to wonder how the event had affected his companion. He now saw what a tribulation it had been. An ordeal in which he’d helped little. He’d been too busy assessing targets and preparing himself for the mass slaughter he thought would ensue, never sparing a thought for Mevon’s efforts to end the night peacefully.

  He’d made a promise to Mevon, to be there to guide him through such trials. Last night, he had broken it.

  Agony clutched his chest, a pain born of regret and hatred towards himself. I’ve done it again. I’ve let someone down in the worst way. When will I learn how to get it right?

  He reached out to Mevon, opening his mouth to begin an apology that he already knew words could not fully express. He was interrupted by Zorvanya’s wordless call, though, and realized they had arrived at the yurt. His atonement would have to wait.

  No answer came, so the woman called again, adding, “Mother Poya? Are you there?”

  Draevenus strained his senses, woken to alertness by Zorvanya’s pinched brow. He held his breath. After three beats, he finally heard the faintest of coughs.

  “Go,” he said. “She’s inside, but weak. I doubt she can hear us.”

  Zorvanya’s worry morphed into alarm as she pushed through the thick hides covering the entrance. He and Mevon followed.

  His first breath inside told him most of the sordid story.

  The stench of rot hung thick in the air, enveloped in threads of mold and sweat. The combination suffocated. He looked past a room covered in dust to where a thick bundle lay wrapped in at least a dozen blankets. The cough sounded again, and the bundle shook.

  Zorvanya dashed to the bedside and knelt, running her hands through the blankets until they met flesh. “She’s burning up,” she cried, voice full of tremors. She leaned in close, querying softly and bending her ear to hear murmured replies. She reached into her bag and began pulling vials of oil and small pouches of dried herbs, lining them up on the bedside.

  Draevenus stepped close. He laid a hand of Zorvanya’s shoulder, causing her to tense. Her face lifted to his, revealing red eyes and wet cheeks.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?” he said.

  Zorvanya nodded. “She may be too far gone already. I don’t know how long she’s been ill.”

  “Perhaps I can take a look?”

  She scoffed. “You’re no shaman, Draevenus.” Her eyes cleared, then widened. “Wait, do you mean . . . magic?”

  He nodded. “I may not be an expert healer, but my skill and your herbs together might just be enough to save her.”

  “Let’s do it, then.”

  They worked to peel back layer after layer of woolen blankets, until the woman beneath was revealed at last. Knotted grey hair, matted with sweat, spread out under a face sunken by age and infirmity. Her eyes fluttered. Lips mumbled incoherently. Even he could tell she had not long to live.

  He laid a hand on her forehead and energized. “It’s a good thing we got here when we did.”

  He quested inside her body with his power. Unnatural heat drew his focus into her lungs, where he found an infection raging. Come on, Draevenus. Concentrate. You can do this. The reknitting of wounds had all but eluded him during his infrequent attempts to harness sorcery for anything but death. Infection, however, was something he knew how to handle. Darkness always seemed a natural antithesis to such alien fire.

  He guided his power, seeking out the strongholds of the infection and smothering them with icy dark. Sweat beaded down his scalp as he worked. His breath became heavy.

  At last, he could find no more traces and withdrew. He sagged, worn from his efforts. “How is she?” he asked.

  “Breathing has evened out, pulse is steady”—­Zorvanya paused, smiling—­“and some color is even returning to her face. I think you did it.”

  “I’ve done what I can, but she will still be weak. It may take some time for her to—­”

  A hand reached out, grasping his wrist with surprising strength.

  “ ‘Weak’ am I?”

  He looked down and saw a hint of a smile around the old woman’s mouth. “Mother Poya, I presume?”

  “Yes. And you are?”

  “This is Draevenus,” Zorvanya said. “And he healed you . . . with magic.”

  Poya arched an eyebrow at him. “Now why would you go and do a thing like that?”

  “I had some questions,” Draevenus said, “that Zorvanya here thinks you might be able to answer.”

  “Questions, eh? How ’bout you help me sit up first. And get us a drink, will ya’? Can’t be blabberin’ on with my throat turned into a sandbed, now can I.”

  Draevenus pulled. Poya retained her grip on his wrist and came upright, wobbling only slightly. Her eyes peeked over his shoulder. “Not that one,” she said. “The big one, with the white rim up top.”

  Draevenus turned to see Mevon setting down a small brown jar and picking up another, this one twice as tall. He brought it over and held it out to the old woman.

  Poya reached for it. Her fingers brushed Mevon’s hand, and she squeaked. Mevon gazed at her curiously.

  “You are one strange fella,” she said.

  “And you,” he replied, “are the first person we’ve met this side of the mountains to have even a drop of sorcerous blood in your veins.”

  “A drop it is, all right. Can’t do much of anything with it. Takes months just to make a simple charm.” She eyed Draevenus. “And I sure as snow can’t do what you just did. Who the abyss are you two?”

  Draevenus sighed. He needed answers from her. Honest answers. He couldn’t afford to give less in return. He cast a glance at Zorvanya. Are you ready to see me for who I truly am?

  Finger by finger, he tugged off his gloves. He swept his hood back, pulling his wig along with it. A small wave of energy dismissed the enchantment that made his eyes appear brown. He took a cloth from his belt and wiped away the skin-­darkening paste on his face.

  “I am a mierothi,” he said. “A child of the dark god Ruul. I need to find him, so I can make him answer for his crimes. Will you help me?”

  Both women’s eyes were wide as moons. Draevenus prepared himself for their judgment.

  “Well,” Poya said, “looks like my great-­grandmother wasn’t crazy after all.”

  Draevenus tingled with excitement. “She saw one of my kin, didn’t she?”

 
; Poya took a swallow from the jug she held, then passed it to him. “She was a little sprout at the time, almost two hundred years ago now, but she told me a story of the day a scale-­skinned creature with claws came through these parts. Body of a girl, but those red eyes of hers were just like yours. They were ancient. Claimed to be after some dark god as well. I can’t remember what she called herself . . .”

  “Vashodia,” Draevenus said. “My sister.”

  He took a gulp from the jug, surprised but delighted that it was full of kefir. It had been a while since he’d last had a drink. He could see the wheels inside Poya’s head turning, putting the pieces together, and a sly smile spread across her lips.

  “Do you happen to know what came of her travels?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “She never came back this way, far as I know. Kept on south, across the plateau.”

  He rose, filled with energy. “Then that’s where we’ll go as well.”

  “Now hold on a mark, there, young man. Winter approaches. That plateau will be an empty, frozen wasteland in a week, if not sooner. If you were smart, you’d wait until the spring thaw.”

  Draevenus waved a hand in dismissal. “We’re used to hard terrain.”

  “Not like this. The land is cracked, filled with crevasses so deep you can’t see the bottom, and wider than twenty men are tall. There’s no game to hunt, no forage, no wood to build a fire, and the wind howls like a thousand wolves, day and night. You may be hardy men, but you’d be fools to try to cross it now.”

  Mevon stepped next to Draevenus. “Perhaps she’s right,” he said. “We aren’t in a rush, are we?”

  Draevenus grimaced, fueled by the desire to see this task through, to confront Ruul once and for all. He couldn’t fathom even the slightest delay. He peered sharply at Poya. “Do you know what lies beyond the plateau?”

  The woman quivered. “Every few years, a haggard traveler comes from out of that waste, often days from death’s door. None of them wish to speak of that what goes on there, however. It is a place of darkness.”

  “Ruul’s corrupting influence.” Draevenus felt a growl building in his throat. “I’ve seen the like before.” He turned to Mevon. “We go now.”