Linaera realised, then, that she had never really understood destiny. Terrin had explained it to her, that fateful day so many months ago, but she had not really comprehended it. Destiny was a strange thing – invisible, and yet inescapable. Linaera understood that destiny was not really a foreign thing, a power conspiring against her wishes. Destiny lay inside her.
She could not return to Renas, because in her heart of hearts she wanted to be something else. She had seen power, tasted it even. She knew what it could do – what horror, what pain, what death – but also that it could be a force for good; that it could cure children, and defeat evil. Linaera yearned for that power. She had it felt it once, when she vanquished the creatures of the swamp. It was only a matter of practice, she knew, to master that power and employ it to her ends.
Linaera made herself comfortable on the top of the walls. The soldiers paid her no attention; they were too busy burning the dead, counting the survivors, and clearing the rubble. When Neshvetal died, the undead fell with him. All that remained of them was dust, and the devastation they had wrought.
Linaera felt only a dull ache of sadness for the survivors. She wanted to hate Neshvetal for what he had done, but could not. It wasn’t just that he was her father. It was that he hadn’t deserved it – any of it. He had not asked for the death of her mother. He had been treated unjustly, and in turn he had acted unjustly. Retribution could not heal her pain, nor bring her father back.
Even so, Linaera wanted to punish someone. Not Neshvetal: but his tormentor, her mother’s killer.
For how long she was there, she did not know. The storm clouds that had so marred the sky were gone; instead there was only the sun, its vermilion rays burning the snow a bloody red. It was cold; the wind blew gently, but insistently. Linaera idly kept a warming spell going. I’m getting good at it, she realises. I can barely feel the power drain.
The city of Dresh had been beautiful once, or so it was argued. Its beauty, if it still had any, was of a different sort now: it was a desolate beauty, a testament to the power of necromancy. Buildings had been turned into rubble, likely by the storm and the monstrous undead. Corpses lined streets. Everything was illuminated by the cold light of winter, a strange phantasmagoria of the falling sun, the glimmering snow, the mist of blood, the lingering – almost acid – taste of powerful magic.
Linaera wondered if the destruction could give birth to something new. Death was needed to sustain life, after all. Before, the city had seen the worst of humankind: corruption, unchecked power, iniquitous poverty. Linaera had seen it at play when she had come upon that desolated village. Indeed she had always known it existed – but her mind had filed it away, a piece of inconvenient knowledge best avoided.
Only now, she wanted to confront it. Neshvetal’s plan to conquer Arachadia had been mad. But he had some noble purposes – and his actions might still serve to bring them about. Whether Neshvetal would be judged a saviour or a monster was for the history books to decide. But as his daughter, she felt a responsibility to succeed where he had failed.
A figure interrupts Linaera from her musings. Black-robed, it moves through the city strangely unseen. Linaera recognises her immediately: it is Leira.
***
“Hello, Linaera.’
”Hello, Leira.” Linaera’s voice is weary, aware of Leira’s status as Neshvetal’s aide, and yet too tired for more bloodshed. Besides: Linaera liked Leira. It was not something she would admit it to easily, but it was true.
“I’m sorry,” Leira begins. “Sorry for all of this. It was a mistake; I see that now. Neshvetal had... an aura, a sense of power I could not resist. Being with him made me feel like I had a purpose. It made me feel powerful; it gave me strength when I had been weak.”
“I know. And I’m sorry too, Leira.”
“What for?”
Linaera smiles. “For bashing you on the head.”
They both laugh. “I deserved it, you know. I think you woke up some doubts that needed waking up, when you did that. And it was brave too – you didn’t know if it would work. You escaped.”
“I did.”
“Out of curiosity, did you have help?”
“I did. But,” Linaera says, feeling strangely confident, “I think you know who from.”
“The mage ghost. I guessed as much.”
A silence temporarily settles. It is broken only by the harsh shouts of the soldiers, and the wailing of those who had lost a loved one.
“Do you want to walk with me?” Linaera asks.
“I do.”
“Do I need to ask how no one can you see you?” It had not taken Linaera very long to figure that out.
“A spell, to misdirect attention,” Leira explains. “You are clearly immune to it; Neshvetal was right when he said you had power.”
“Do you want to traverse the stairs?” Linaera asks. It had taken her considerable effort to scale them, for the walls were tall, and many of the stairs had been broken.
“I think you know the answer to that.” The air around them seemed alive; Linaera was buffeted by unexplained gusts.
Leira jumps. Linaera jumps with her. Their fall is a gentle one, cushioned by the air.
As they walk, Linaera poses questions. “What next for you, Leira?’
“I won’t be raising any undead armies, if that’s what you’re asking.’
“But what will you do? Will you be a mage, or will you abandon magic altogether? Will you... practise necromancy in other ways?’
“Yes. Necromancy is not evil, Linaera; it is possible to speak with the dead as spirits, or to raise them through the sacrifice of animals. And it can be very useful. Perhaps to a relative needing to speak to a lost loved one, or to armies in need of fearless soldiers.’
“It won’t be easy,’ Linaera states.
“No it won’t, but I will do it.’
“I understand the feeling,’ Linaera continues.
“How so?’
“I want to... reform Arachadia. I want the Crown to be weakened, the role of Great Mage to be undertaken by a triad, and most of all: I want what is best for the people. No more corruption. No more tax systems that benefit the rich at the expense of the poor. Housing for all, healer mages for all.’
“That’s a noble quest, Linaera.’
“Neshvetal wanted it, in between the plans for world domination.’
Leira smiles at that. “Indeed. And I wish you luck on your quest, Linaera. I take it there is a particular candidate you support for the throne?’
“I support Harald Gunthen.’
“I suspected as much; a man of the people.’
“You know of him?’
“I did not live under a rock, Linaera. Neshvetal’s castle may have been remote, but I regularly travelled to the many surrounding towns. Dragethir are excellent means of transport. And wraiths are excellent spies—no word of gossip escaped me. I was Neshvetal’s commander-in-chief, his spymaster and agent.’
“In any case,’ Linaera continues, “my support for Harald would be predicated on the condition that he bring in an elected parliament.’
“Oh? You want democracy?’
“Only a representative version, mind you—I don’t quite share the convictions of my friend, Sasha, regarding its efficacy. But I see a need for it.’
“Bold plans, Linaera. Bold plans.’
Linaera only shrugs. “We shall see.’
Linaera soon notices that Leira has guided them to the palace.
“Leira—’
“I know; trust me. There is something you need to see.’
They make their way past various rooms, some ornate, others showing signs of magical damage. Linaera had left her party, and Deriën, as soon as Neshvetal died. She did not know where they were. Recovering, she hoped.
They stop at the throne room. Linaera gasps.
***
Roses. They were everywhere: growing through cracks in the floor, through the walls and through the roof. They were bla
ck. Black as Neshvetal’s soul when he had died; black as the evil that tormented him.
And yet they were beautiful. Linaera could not deny that: they possessed an undeniable elegance, an unearthly beauty.
“Why—?’
“I felt the moment Neshvetal died. His power did not simply evaporate; it flowed out into the world, to produce what you see now.’
“Leira, as a necromancer... do you know what happens after death?’ It was an age old question. It occurred to Linaera that she had never bothered to ask it of the person who might actually know the answer.
Leira only smiles, very slightly. “Limbo, Linaera, is where necromancers travel in order to bind souls. But Limbo is a transient place. It is why we cannot raise long-dead skeletons, only those recently fallen.’
“So is Neshvetal—my father, I mean—in Limbo right now?’
“Perhaps. Neshvetal was very powerful; I doubt he would bother staying in Limbo. He will go to meet his true death, wherever that may be.’
Linaera bends down, and picks up one of the roses. It is soft, and thornless. It buzzes with power; Linaera can feel it through her fingers, a force that seems almost alive.
“We’ll build a new palace, to symbolise our turn away from despotism, and leave this place a monument.’ The words seem so perfect saying them; Linaera immediately realises their truth.
“A wise choice. It is best that I be off, now, Linaera. We will meet again. I’m sure you are able to contact me?’
Of course, Linaera telepathies. I know you, Leira, and...
You can feel me anywhere in Arachadia. You have mastered long-range telepathy, Linaera; I am impressed, though not surprised. Returning to spoken speech, Leira says:
“So long, Linaera. I am glad that our ending, at least, is a good one.’ With that, the wind grows racuous once more. Leira flies out through a window.
Not long after, Deriën arrives. “Linaera! Where have you been? You left me alone, here in this human city, with only strangers for company.’
Linaera only smiles a little. She had never quite realised how beautiful Deriën was—how his hair (recently cut short) shone like gold; how his eyes glimmered green, the forest living through him as much as he lived the forest; and, more so, how she felt about him. She had thought him a bastard, before.
Now, after what they had gone through together, Linaera realised that he was really a lovable bastard.
“I’m sorry, Deriën, but my father died.’
“I know. I can imagine your feelings; they are most contradictory.’
“That’s a good way to put it.’
“You will understand them better, in time. For now—will you join me?’ He looks at her with a strange pleading; an expression foreign to Deriën.
“I will, Deriën. But there are some things I want to do first. Have you seen the roses?’
Deriën’s eyes widen; he had, until then, not noticed them. It occurred to Linaera that elves were capable of being distracted as much as humans, despite their claims to the contrary.
“Is this...?’
“Because of Neshvetal? Yes; yes it is.’
Deriën just stands in awed silence. Then he bows his head, and leaves Linaera to be alone.
***
In the following silence, Linaera stands, and listens. At first she can hear nothing. The room is silent; it is like a catacomb. Then she begins to hear it. Faint, but with a power undeniable.
Linaera... Do not fear for me. I have eluded death for over a hundred years; I have travelled death, raised death, brought death. Your goal is noble. You saw with clarity, where my sight was clouded by revenge.
You have my blessing. I am sorry I was not with you for longer; I am sorry that I was not there for you when you grew up. You make me proud—you have all the fire your mother had.
Your suspicions are true; follow your heart.
Goodbye.
Linaera walks away from the room. The sounds of life return as normal. But there is a difference, an irrefutable marker of her experience. The roses shift, and suddenly, the room collapses. The rest of the palace falls with it.
Eventually, all that remains is the roses. A monument of them, dedicated to the lost one.
***
Not long after she left the palace, Linaera was confronted by a ghost.
And nor was it a metaphorical ghost, of the kind told in stories. Eiliara stood before her: she glowed an ethereal blue, and yet despite her unearthly appearance, she seemed altogether more solid than when Linaera had last met her. Indeed—were it not for her knowledge of Eiliara’s death, and the sense afforded to her by magic—Eiliara might even have convinced some that she was still alive.
“Hello, Linaera.” She smiles gently—and for the first time since her death, Linaera sees that Eiliara is no longer plagued by her fate.
“Eiliara. How... are you?”
She laughs, and with only a trace of bitterness. “That’s a strange question to ask a ghost, Linaera. I’m dead; how can I be?”
“Well—dare I say you seem more solid than when I last met you?”
“That is true; I have been practising my magics in this form.”
“But more to the point,” Linaera continues, “do you still crave vengeance?”
“He is dead.” The words were everything that could be said.
“But what about you? You are also dead. And don’t lie to me, Eiliara—for I understand the temptation you face. Your death was unjust; why not keep on living, as an undead being?”
“You’re a smart girl, Linaera. Terrin never gave you enough credit.”
Linaera only inclines hear head, acknowledging the truth.
“But you’re right. I wish you weren’t, but you are. So... I shall visit what remains of my family. I shall see Nemir, my former lover. They will be sad to see me go. But that is my fate; I cannot stay in this realm indefinitely. Evil will surely follow if I do.”
“You’re a brave woman, Eiliara. Few can accept death willingly. Perhaps Terrin underestimated you.”
She smiles at that. “Oh, Terrin gave me credit. But in any case, Linaera, thank you for your complements. I guess I must say goodbye to you.”
“Goodbye, Eiliara.
With a whisper of the wind, Eiliara vanished. Linaera began walking, at once sad and yet deeply satisfied. She had done her job here. And now, she had one more thing left to do.
***
A long time ago, Linaera had read—in one of her innumerable books—that the tradition of Great Mage held a custom. The Great Mage was the most powerful mage in all the land. If someone were to challenge him, and win, they would, by default, inherit the title.
This had happened only once in the histories, many years ago. Linaera hoped it was about to happen again.
It had not taken her that much effort to deduce the truth. Neshvetal hated the Great Mage. Nateldorth had been installed twenty years ago, and would have been in a position to order her mother’s death. And Neshvetal had hinted as much.
It had not taken her a great deal of effort to locate Nateldorth’s rooms, either, or to steal her way into them. She watched as the old man slept.
She felt his wards—wards that had been there before, for the old man was undoubtedly still not fully recovered to maintain them. She felt her power coil like a snake. It was a wild power; the vastness of the sea, the strength of the trees, the rage of a tragedy long past.
The wards shatter. Nateldorth wakes up immediately.
“Who... who are you?’
“Don’t you know?’
Nateldorth, though evidently frightened and taken aback, takes the time to analyse her carefully.
“Please tell me you’re not... his daughter?’
“I am.’
Nateldorth nods. He is no longer afraid. “I would deserve my death. And yet I beg forgiveness of you. For one, I could have ordered you killed as well; I chose not to. For two, I regret my actions. I was obsessed by power then, beyond all measure.’
&n
bsp; Linaera nods, understanding the truth of his words. “I believe you. And yet, if I were here for vengeance, I would still kill you. Your regret does not erase your past actions.
“But I am not here to kill you, Nateldorth; that would solve nothing, and bring only more bloodshed.
“Instead, I invite you to a duel.”
Nateldorth blinks. “What... why? I am weakened, and I feel you are powerful; what do you seek to prove?’
“That I must be Great Mage.’
Nateldorth shrugs. “I no longer want this. I accept your challenge.’
***
Linaera knew that it was also possible for a Great Mage, if he or she were old and felt their power ailing, to resign. That would prompt a formal contest—an act that would run against her interests. Linaera did not want to fight half a dozen powerful mages; she had not challenged Nateldorth for the sake of a good fight. Rather, she needed to show the world that her role would be legitimate.
She scheduled the duel for early morning. That night, she slept with Deriën, and told him of her plans.
“Are you sure you want to do this? The Great Mage will be recovered, and I’d never known you to be powerful.’
“Have faith in me, Deriën.’ She kisses him, gently. She seizes the power inside her—she takes the slightest piece of it, and through her lips, bequeaths it to Deriën.
His eyes widen. She ends the kiss, watching him.
“You’re part fae.”
“I am; it’s from my mother.”
Deriën shakes his head. “Your father a mage so powerful, your mother a strong fae. Magic is not always transmitted reliably, but how you could have had power and not known it?’
“Maybe I didn’t want to have it. I thought I was just an apprentice—a lucky orphan with a spark of magic. Sometimes, you have to accept power before it can come to you.”
They slept together that night, and Linaera was not afraid.
***
The early morning was bright, and very chill. The snow was a blanket of glittering crystals. The city square was not full, but the spectators were important. Arch Mages, Silver Mages, and various other magery lined the square. No others were permitted; it was a custom followed for important acts of magic.
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