Shadow of the Void

by Nathan Garrison

  She peered into his eyes, pleading and honest, brimming with tears. She couldn’t find it in herself to tell him no.

  Moreover, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  Arivana and Flumere had scoured the library for any other mention of statute eighty-­ seven but had come up empty. She spent the next several days in a perpetual state of anxiety. She kept up appearances, performing her duties and even visiting the boys on the entertainment levels once. They took turns reading her poetry, most of it vain ramblings of writers overstuffed with their own supposed brilliance. She thought it boring. The whole affair seemed sordid, but for some reason she couldn’t quite place, she felt as if she had to start pleasing Tior.

  Then, she could place it. She was going to confront him about the statute—­she had to—­and knew she must give him no reason to chastise her.

  But every time he was near, she found some excuse for not bringing it up. Her throat was dry, she needed a rest, she had some other appointment to keep. Today, though, she had worked up enough courage. She would finally do it.

  Now, I just need to find the old man.

  She and Flumere asked around, for tolls it seemed, yet found no one who could give them a definite location. She even dared send a summons, but the porter came back empty-­handed. Her resolve faltered with each passing mark and was nearly spent when they stumbled into a servant who swore she’d seen him down at the tower reception hall not too long ago. Arivana thanked the woman, took a deep breath, then headed for the lift.

  “Ground floor, please,” she said to the elevator operator.

  The man bowed. “As you wish, your majesty.”

  As the lift began its descent, she turned to Flumere. Her nervousness must have shown on her face, for the woman reached out, squeezing her hand affirmingly. “You’ll be fine.”

  Arivana squeezed back. “I hope so.”

  They passed the rest of the way in silence, then emerged into the ground-­level hall. Banners for every nation lined the walls, lit by crystal chandeliers that floated and bobbed. Sculptures and statues made a maze of the marble floor. All of this and more was designed to impress visitors. Beyond that, at the end of the hall near the entrance, sat another copy of the Jeweled Throne, barely used by her, where she could sit to receive ambassadors, foreign rulers, and other so-­called important guests.

  Tior stood next to the throne, turning at their approach. “My queen! That was quick. I only just sent the request for your presence a few moments ago.”

  Arivana stumbled over her next step. “You . . . asked for me?”

  “Yes, of course. Is that not why you’re here?”

  “No. I mean . . . what is this about?”

  “Visitor. Should be arriving shortly. Do you remember the proper addresses and such?”

  “Yes.”

  “Best get seated then.”

  “Okay, but—­”

  “No time to waste, your majesty. Please.” He gestured towards the throne.

  Flumere gave a little pat on her shoulder. Arivana nodded. “No. I must speak with you first. It is important.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.” She swallowed. “I must gain a clear understanding about statute eighty-­seven of the Citizens Refinement Act. What do you know about it?”

  Minister Pashams lifted a brow, intertwining his fingers in a thoughtful pose. “Eighty-­seven? Hmm. That sounds familiar . . .”

  She gritted her teeth. “Do. Not. Lie to me. I will not believe that you are ignorant of its existence.”

  Tior’s eyes widened. Both cheeks twitched, but not from mirth. “I see.”

  Arivana folded her arms and waited.

  With a great sigh, Tior began. “Beauty is our nation’s greatest export. ­People have come to expect nothing short of stunning when looking upon anything with our name stamped upon it. The purpose of the Citizen’s Refinement Act is to ensure that everyone who deigns to call our city home adheres to standards of beauty in all aspects of their lives.

  “Perception is reality, to most ­people anyway. Those that matter. Those in control. If the world were to perceive that we could not keep our own streets resplendent, what would they begin to think about our exports?”

  Arivana shivered. “That doesn’t explain the statute.”

  Tior shrugged. “Ugliness can manifest itself in many forms. You are too young to—­”

  “I am NOT too young! I—­”

  Just as she had cut him off, so too did the herald’s trumpet interrupt her.

  The doors began to open.

  This isn’t over.

  Tassariel stared through the opening doors, the trumpet blast still ringing in her ears.

  “This isn’t the consulate,” she said.

  “No,” Elos said. “Is that where you thought we were going?”

  “I . . . don’t know. I assumed—­”

  “A fiendish thing to do.”

  “Yes, but what am I to do here?”

  “You’re here to offer your ser­vices.”

  “To whom? For what?”

  “That, I must leave up to you.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “It’s just one of those things. Foresight, remember? If I tell you too much, my predictions become, well, unpredictable. Just follow your instinct.”

  “Instinct. Right. Whatever that means.”

  She had half a mind to do the exact opposite of her instinct, just to spite him. But then again, that might be just what he was counting on. She had no way of knowing how precise his calculations could possibly be.

  Just be true to yourself, Tassariel. Don’t let him change who you are.

  With a deep breath, she walked in through the bright opening.

  Still blinking, a man appeared at her side. “How shall I announce you, madam?”

  “Umm. As ‘Tassariel.’ ”

  “Just . . . Tassariel?”

  “You can add ‘of the valynkar,’ I guess.”

  The herald smiled. He shouted out her title, eliciting another ache from her already throbbing skull.

  She stepped forward, lifting her eyes past the dozen guardsmen lined up at the sides of the room, standing rigidly. A young girl sat on a gaudy throne, orange hair gleaming under the light of a crystal chandelier. Tassariel had never been overly concerned about her appearance, but the girl was so beautiful, it made her feel plain. Dowdy. She shook that feeling and glanced to the girl’s side. An old man stood next to her in ornate robes.

  Let’s just get this over with.

  “Greetings,” the girl said. “On behalf of the ­people of Panisahldron, I, Queen Arivana Celandaris, welcome you to our city.”

  Tassariel froze, uncertain about the proper protocols, and feeling ever more awkward for facing a child queen. “Thank you,” she said at last.

  The old man stepped forward. “And I, Tior Pashams, Minister of Gardens and supreme advisor to the crown, welcome you as well. What is it that brings you to our fair city?”

  “I have come,” she began, clearing her throat to buy her a moment to think, “as . . . a representative of Elos.”

  “What?” Elos said.

  She ignored him. “The power of his light is used in abundance in this city. He has sent me to . . . umm . . . oversee its proper administration.”

  “Really?” the minister said. “My dear, you must be mistaken. We already have the consulate, which performs this very task.”

  Abyss take me! Why did I say that? And why didn’t I ever research what it was that Lerathus did here?

  “Maybe,” she said, desperate to cover her mistake. “But they only speak with the will of our council. I speak with the direct voice of our god.”

  “You just couldn’t help it, could you?”

  She muttered under her breath, “I’m not lying, am I?
”

  The god seemed to sigh. “Technically? No.”

  “Interesting,” the minister said, folding his hands together. “You must know that this is all quite unprecedented.”

  “I understand.”

  The queen opened her mouth to speak but shut it again, twisting her lips and glancing at the minister. She almost appeared afraid to speak, anger and uncertainty plaguing her gaze.

  At last, though, the girl took a breath and met Tassariel’s eyes. “If that is the case, then know that you are most heartily welcome by me. If your god wishes to inspect his own power, then by all means, I shall make sure to aid you in any way possible.”

  The queen glanced again at the back of the minister’s head, cringing as if afraid of reprisal. Just what was going on here? Whatever it was, Tassariel didn’t like it. And the minister seemed to be the one towards whom her distrust naturally inclined.

  Very well, Elos. Watch me follow my instinct.

  Tassariel stepped forward and knelt before the throne. “Your majesty, that is very good to hear, for Elos has sent me specifically to offer you my ser­vices. As of this moment, I am pledged to you and you alone.”

  The minister sucked in a hissing breath.

  The queen smiled. “It would be my honor.” She stood, holding out her hands. “Please. Rise.”

  Tassariel obliged. She reached out to grasp the girl’s hands. From the corner of her eye, she witnessed a woman’s face poke out from behind the throne. A servant of some sort, by her plain clothes.

  Under no control of her own, Tassariel felt herself begin energizing.

  “Kill her. Kill her!” Elos screamed. “KILL HER!”

  Her hands, not yet touching the queen’s, glowed with power. They turned of their own accord towards the woman behind the throne. A spell formed at her fingertips.

  Death was but a beat away from release.

  No . . .

  She snatched her hands back at what seemed the last possible moment, dispersing her energy harmlessly into the floor.

  The queen tilted her head. “Is . . . everything all right?”

  “No it’s not,” the minister said. He stepped up next to her, energizing himself. With a start, Tassariel realized he was her equal in sorcerous power.

  Stamping boots drew up behind her. She felt a faint breeze as half a dozen swords swung towards her, stopping so close she felt sure she would bleed if she so much as sneezed.

  As far as first impressions went, this was, by far, the worst one of her life.

  PART III

  CHAPTER 13

  Draevenus wasn’t sure if he or Mevon stopped first. The air held something. A menace. A promise borne on breezes across the steppes that blood lay in wait for those who trespassed. He felt it in the squishy release of oils between his hard-­packed scales. He saw it in the stillness of the stones and the trees. He heard it in the silence.

  They’d been tracking the thing that stole their last meal for days now, barely scraping by on roots and berries. They’d seen no other game. Hunger had driven them, but where to find their next meal would be the least of their worries if they didn’t survive the next few marks.

  Without a word, they both ducked behind trees on opposite sides of the narrow game trail. Arrows zipped through the air, punching holes in the bark and the space they’d just vacated. A shout went up, harsh cries of beastly rage, all the more twisted for ringing from human throats. Countless animal growls joined them, guttural and rabid, deep as boulders, filling the shallow bowl of the hillside with their fury.

  Draevenus pulled his daggers, energizing, and glanced across at the Mevon. “I’ll leave the beasts to you?”

  And without waiting for an answer, he shadow-­dashed away.

  Mevon sighed.

  “Yes, I’ll take the beasts,” he said to the trail of black that was already starting to fade.

  More arrows spat towards him. One got lucky, embedding in his shoulder. He pulled it out with a grunt and ran to the next tree thick enough to hide his bulk. The growls sounded again. Closer. He felt rhythmic vibrations through the rocky soil as heavy limbs struck the ground, again and again.

  Men only lashed out without warning from fear or from the blackness staining their souls. He didn’t know which these men were. Right now, he couldn’t afford to care. Death came calling. Violence. Blood. One way or another, he had to give answer.

  And today was not the day that he would choose to die.

  He leapt sideways, onto a flat stone outcropping. Twin blurs of darkness scythed around the tree, just missing their intended target. Mevon finally got a good look at them.

  Draevenus alighted upon the shallow ridge and immediately enshrouded himself in shadow. With the sun high overhead, darkness would not be the best concealment, but it might just buy him a beat or two of confusion from his assailants. More than enough time to assess his targets. To execute.

  He peered down but did not see anyone. Strange smears, dark and low, darted across the battlefield, somehow able to avoid the thick bramble. Not men. He would leave them for Mevon. He turned his gaze up the hill towards where the beasts had emerged. A tangle of trees and shrubs and rocks provided plenty of places to hide. Even as he watched, more arrows streaked from hidden nooks.

  I’ve got you now.

  The foliage would be a problem. Drawing all the dark energy he could hold, he thrust his hands forward, emitting a jet of blue flame. It lanced down, igniting the undergrowth in a swath as he swept it from left to right.

  An arrow whizzed by, grazing his thigh. Draevenus released the spell and dashed behind the smoking conflagration.

  One of the creatures lunged for Mevon. He reached out and wrapped a hand around its throat. Forepaws gouged at his arm, tearing strips of fur from his coat as they sought the flesh beneath. The rear legs raked towards his belly.

  Mevon studied it.

  Black fur, black eyes, black drool dripping from black teeth. He thought at first it was a wolf—­the size was about right—­but the snout was too long, sporting thick whiskers, and the body too bulbous.

  He held in his hand the biggest rat he’d ever seen.

  Movement in his peripheral. Three more of the vile things.

  Mevon spun, wielding the beast in his grip like a club and smashing it into another. He let the two collapse in a heap, then stepped back. The other pair crashed together, heads cracking in the space he’d just occupied. He jumped. Boots stamped down, crushing twin skulls. Dark blood burst onto the boulder and hissed like boiling tar.

  The first two rats pounced on him again. One landed on his shoulder, scraping his cheek with an errant swipe. The wound stung like acid. Mevon wrenched his blades free and buried one in the heart of each beast.

  He lifted his head as two more creatures came into view, yipping wildly. Not rats this time.

  Black jackals, big as horses.

  Draevenus waded through the smoke. The sorcerous shadows enveloping him now found a purpose, a home, concealing him within the chaos. He much preferred to be the one laying an ambush, but still, there was something brutally sweet about turning the tables, like finding hot peppers in a pastry.

  Two enormous men staggered towards him, coughing. He froze, curious to see if they would even notice him. They didn’t. He watched them approach, clutching bows in one hand. Some sort of dark, fuzzy suit surrounded each of them, almost like they were sprouting their own fur. Draevenus waited until they drew abreast of him.

  In a single motion, he struck. The two men took one step more, then fell to the ground, dead before they hit.

  More movement. Draevenus shadow-­dashed towards it without thinking. He landed amidst five men as they slid into place behind a hollow of large stones, a place relatively free of flames.

  One managed a surprised shout before Draevenus whirled, blades gleaming as firelight reflected off
blood-­soaked steel. He cut two throats in a heartbeat. The men fell to their knees, spitting red and obscenities.

  The other three swung at him. Draevenus parried two stone hatchets, then ducked under a wild blow by a heavy cudgel. He kicked at the knee of this third man. The sound of crunching bone reached his ears. The man toppled into one of his fellows.

  A hatchet chopped down again, and Draevenus twisted out of its way, using his motion to empower an upward slice. Wrist tendons snapped apart, and a hand went flying, weapon still in its grip, spraying black blood across the survivors.

  Not survivors for much longer.

  He stepped towards them. The one still standing swiped his hatchet. Draevenus batted it aside, then lunged, driving a dagger up through the soft part of the man’s chin and into the brain.

  The downed man cracked his cudgel into Draevenus’s shin, but he barely felt it in the rush of adrenaline. He flipped his left blade into a reverse grip, then drove it down. It sank into the back of the man’s head, to the hilt.

  Draevenus straightened. He closed his eyes, sniffing and straining his ears. Distant, bestial growls sounded, but he didn’t worry about those. Mevon could take care of himself. The crackling flames he’d spawned grew nearer by the beat, drowning out any hope of sensing human presence nearby. He sauntered out into the clear air.

  Once away from the smoke, his eyes were all he needed to find his next targets. Two men crouched behind trees, facing away from him.

  Still wrapped in shadow, Draevenus advanced.

  The massive jackals trotted towards Mevon, tongues lolling from creepy, happy-­looking faces. They seemed unconcerned by him or the dead rat-­things at his feet, circling almost lazily. They paused, just out of lunging distance. Black eyes sparkled with twisted delight.

  Behind me . . .

  A weight slammed into his neck. And with it, pain.

  He spun, reaching behind him. His hand grasped . . . something. Teeth tore free as he pulled, slicing across his spine. A jolt of pain ran through him, and he fell to a knee.

  He crushed the ball of fur in his hand. He didn’t have time to examine it. A dozen more, at least, leapt atop him before he could so much as breathe.