“The death of an Ascendant heralds a new dawn. The murder of an Ascendant heralds a new age.”
—Vizean Lagour, Izarian philosopher, 356 AG
Krystia Tharule forced herself to smile politely even as the councilors arrayed across the table bickered endlessly with one another. She didn’t need her telepathy to see how their fear and doubt had stripped them of all reason and sensibility. They were like a group of unruly children thrust into the chaos of the world for the first time, and they had no idea what to do without their domineering parents. Krystia didn’t hate them—she pitied them and their insular existence.
“I’m perfectly willing to answer your questions, but first everyone needs to calm down,” she said, doing her best to sound authoritative but not angered. “Lord Margove, why don’t you go first? I know you wished to ask me something.”
“I wish to ask you many things,” he said, his voice a bitter sneer, “but why don’t we start with the basics. High Priest Kaeldar seems unable to recall much of anything, and the reports from the surviving guardsmen were vague at best. How is it that you, a priestess living within the temple, managed to respond to a threat inside the King’s Tower before the rest of the royal garrison? And then how did you stop two deadly Crell assassins before they penetrated the chamber defenses?”
“Your Majesty,” Krystia corrected.
Margrove frowned and cocked his head. “Excuse me?”
“When you address me, the proper title is ‘Your Majesty.’”
He glared at her incredulously, his mouth hanging open. Finally he broke into a bitter laugh. “I assume this is some ill-fated attempt at humor?”
“On the contrary, I am quite serious,” Krystia assured him. “In times of great distress, it is even more imperative for us to adhere to proper protocol.”
His laughter died. “You are not our queen. This Council has not selected a proper heir—”
“And it is no longer required to do so,” she interrupted coolly. “I carry within me the spirit of Sol and the memories of King Areekan and all his predecessors. By all rights, I am the legitimate ruler of the Alliance, just as you are one of its chosen Councilors.”
The silence melted into confusion, and Krystia again forced herself to smile politely. As tempting as it was to simply reach out with her mind and forcibly quash their doubts, she decided that wielding her telepathy like a bludgeon was a bit extreme—at least for now. Hopefully reason could still win the day. But if not…
“With all due respect, priestess,” Lady Savilen replied evenly, “that is not your decision to make. The successor to the throne is chosen by this Council, not you.”
Krystia smiled at the older woman as she leaned back in her throne and crossed her legs. “Unfortunately, the Rite of Ascension is a luxury we cannot afford. Our great nation faces an unprecedented threat. With the fall of Brackengarde and Aman-Dapor, we are now in a battle for our very survival. We cannot abide doubt or hesitation under such perilous circumstances—instead, we must concentrate all our available resources upon the Crell. We must turn the tide of this war before it consumes us all.”
“The Rite of Ascension is not a luxury,” Savilen protested. “It is the very essence of our democracy.”
“You represent your province, Lady Savilen, just as the others represent theirs. That is the essence of our democracy. The monarch is meant to coordinate the Lord’s Council, and that’s exactly what I plan to do. I wish to work with you to defeat the Crell.”
“What you wish is irrelevant,” Margrove snapped, standing in his seat. “You are a placeholder—a bookmark. Being present at the king’s murder is coincidence, not entitlement.”
“I’m sure all of us appreciate what you were able to do, Priestess Tharule,” Lord Jeracho added diplomatically. “You saved the lives of two royal guardsmen and shielded the spirit of Sol against a malicious and cowardly attack upon the very heart of our Alliance. We are also incredibly fortunate that you were able to sustain King Areekan’s bond with our forces at Garos. Without their support, we would have lost the north as well. Truly, we are very grateful for what you have done.”
Krystia smiled. Jeracho’s province in the south was already under siege from the Crell, but that wasn’t why he was placating her. He meant what he said and seemed genuinely annoyed with the others. His attitude gave her a small bit of hope that this wouldn’t have to end as badly as she’d feared.
“I thank you for your kind words,” she said with a nod. “And Lord Jeracho brings up a very important point: in maintaining our position at Garos, we have thwarted a vital part of the Crell invasion plan. Another Rite of Ascension would leave us vulnerable on every front—the enemy might even be able to march on Celenest before we recovered.”
Savilen shook her head. “You can’t hide behind veiled threats and fear-mongering to justify an unlawful Ascension. We all acknowledge the need for swift and decisive action here, but we cannot dismiss our basic principles so easily.”
“More importantly,” Margrove added, “if you were able to maintain a bond with so many of the king’s servants, I’m sure your lawfully appointed successor will have similar luck.”
“What exactly are you basing that on, Edgar?” Tamas blurted out. “As far as I know, this has never happened before.”
Margrove grunted. “She’s barely more than a child—how could she accomplish such a unique feat?”
“Because she’s not like any ruler you’ve ever had,” a stiff voice from the back of the room chimed in. Gabriel Alric, Highlord of the Last Dawn, stood from his advisor seat behind the Council. “Only two people in your government were even aware of her true nature, and now one is dead and the other traumatized.”
Krystia met his stern gaze. His face was expressionless, but she could see the contempt simmering in his eyes. She understood how he felt—if Alric hadn’t conspired to cast Tevek from the Dawn, he would still be alive. A part of her was tempted to burn the new Highlord to cinders right where he stood, political consequences be damned.
“Regrettably,” Alric continued as the councilors turned to face him, “our previous Highlord harbored many secrets, some of which are only just coming to the forefront now. I’m sure many of you were quite fond of Tevek Dracian, and he was my oldest and closest friend. But these last few weeks before his valiant death in the defense of your king, we became aware of several of his…indiscretions. One of which some of you may be aware of already—a former Knight of the Last Dawn whose identity as an Unbound was concealed from us for four years.”
“You mean the vaeyn who fought alongside our forces at Serogar, and who General Iouna commissioned to fight for us at Garos?” Lord Alistan asked pointedly. “She is also responsible for saving the Galvian Resistance in Lyebel.”
Alric tossed the man an annoyed glance. “Assertions which do not dismiss the fact she willingly lied about her heritage to the Conclave with the support of Highlord Dracian. But the fate of Dame Devarath is not the concern of this Council—instead, I turn you to one of the Highlord’s earlier projects, your resident priestess-turned-queen.”
Their gazes swept towards Krystia. Alistan might have defused Alric’s momentum, but there was no way to stop this inquisition completely. Krystia had known all along that she would have to deal with this revelation today at some point; she had simply wished to handle it on her own terms.
“I was rescued by Highlord Dracian when I was eight years-old,” she said. “Tevek believed in equality and opportunity, and so he made arrangements with King Areekan to train me as a temple priestess. Only His Majesty and his Voice knew the truth.”
The councilors looked upon each other with awe and horror, just as she’d expected. Margrove’s eyes narrowed into a feral glower.
“You’re a fraud,” he murmured.
“I assure you I am quite real—as is my power,” Krystia replied evenly. “Only an Unbound could maintain the king’s bonds as I did. The Alliance will need my strength if it is to survive.”
“You be
long in the Unbound Academy with the other degenerates,” Margrove hissed. “I cannot believe Tyrius kept the truth from us. This is heresy!”
She smiled. “As of today, the Asylum’s services will no longer be required. I have already dispatched a squad a troops to make contact with the priests and prisoners and bring them home.”
“You what?” Savilen stammered. “You have no authority over the Academy! This is outrageous.”
“We are going to need all the help we can get to drive back the Crell,” Krystia explained, tension creeping into her voice despite her best efforts. “I plan to organize and train the Unbound to fight alongside our forces. Our Bound are still vulnerable to the Crell Breakers—we need soldiers in key positions who can defend themselves against this technique.”
“Intolerable,” Margrove breathed, shaking his head.
“As a member of the Conclave, I can assure you the Last Dawn will not support a government run by a renegade…sorceress,” Alric nearly spat. “Nor will we support the wanton release of others. The actions of Legion General Iouna already forced me to withdraw my knights from Garos. If this Council does not remove this heretic from power, then I will pull my forces out of Solaria. You will fight this war alone.”
Krystia glared daggers at him. The Council erupted into a shouting match. At first they directed their vitriol at her, but soon it bled over to one another. Many of the councilors had never gotten along, and the current crisis quickly became an excuse to vent long festering political resentment. All the while she stared at Alric, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. She could feel the protective wards he had already conjured around himself—he was bold to challenge her so directly, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew she couldn’t lash out at him here, not in front of the Council.
Still, Krystia had never expected him to support her anyway, and there was no way in Obsidian that she was going to turn her back on Elade or the Asylum prisoners. She would fight and win this war without the Last Dawn if she had to.
“You are dismissed from this Council, Highlord Alric,” she called out once the worst of the din had settled. “You and your knights are no longer welcome within the Alliance.”
The conversation abruptly stopped, and every eyeball in the room focused squarely upon her. Alric, for his part, simply nodded.
“So be it.”
The Council watched in silent horror as he strode to the door. They couldn’t believe that an ancient political alliance—perhaps the oldest in all of Torsia—had just evaporated right before their eyes. Krystia waited until the paladin had reached the door before speaking again.
“One more thing, Lord Alric. I have ordered Highlord Dracian’s body taken to the royal crematorium. He will be given a burial here among friends, not among those who slid daggers into his back.”
The smugness on Alric’s face vanished. “You have no authority to make that decision!”
She shrugged. “Unless you wish to draw steel against my guards, you will have to live with my decision.”
“You walk a dangerous path, Your Majesty,” he growled. “I would be careful lest you turn your allies into enemies.”
“I am Unbound, Highlord,” Krystia reminded him. “As far as you’re concerned, we are already enemies. Now leave before I lose my patience.”
Alric’s jaw clenched, and his dark eyes blazed with impotent fury. But he could seethe as much as he wanted—Krystia wasn’t about to let him use Tevek for his own personal political gain. No, her white knight belonged here with her, where his memory as a hero would live on forever unsullied by those who had turned against him.
“I eagerly await news of another change in leadership,” Alric said, turning back to the Council. “Until then, do not bother speaking with us.”
The door slammed shut behind him, and Margrove instantly leapt to his feet. “You have no right!” he nearly screamed. “We are in charge here, not some spoiled quim who fancies herself queen!”
Krystia eyed him coolly. “Be seated, Lord Margove.”
He shook his head. “I refuse to sit before this trave—”
“One way or another,” she interrupted coldly, “you will be sitting in that chair. And then you will listen quietly to what I have to say.”
No one moved. Margrove’s face boiled red, as if he were about to explode at any minute. His ire was echoed in most of the others, but thankfully they were still paralyzed by shock and fear—fear of the war, fear of their political fortunes, and now, most importantly, a fear of their new queen.
Fear was good. Fear could keep them in line if they refused to be reasonable.
When Margrove was still standing a few moments later, Krystia gestured with two fingers and used the Aether to flatten him into his chair. He twitched as if to struggle, but she held a firm grip on his mind and its control of his muscles.
“Release me!” he demanded.
“I gave you the chance to be seated on your own, and now I’m giving you the chance to be quiet,” she told him. “This time, I suggest you take it.”
His mouth clamped shut, and she could feel the terror shuddering through him. For all his supposed “power,” from his wealth to his prestige as an Alliance Councilor, at the end of the day Edgar Margrove was just a helpless old man. All of the councilors were helpless, really; they were trapped by their own limited senses and undeveloped minds. For a single heartbeat, Krystia wondered if it was even worth keeping them around as advisors. She could easily send them home or simply kill them outright. Many of them deserved worse.
But no, Krystia was not an evil person, regardless of what they wanted to think. She had done what was necessary to secure freedom for herself, her people, and the entire nation. Now she would lead them as best she could, granting their liberties when possible but ultimately remaining focused on their one true objective—the absolute destruction of the Crell Imperium and its wicked sovereigns.
For all their faults, the men and women here did have something useful to contribute. They would simply have to get used to her way of doing things. Solaria would no longer be a nation of indecision, intolerance, and empty tradition. From the ashes of the old Alliance would arise a much more powerful nation capable of liberating all of Torsia, and after that all of Obsidian. Solaria would be a beacon of freedom and hope, democracy and tolerance, a brilliant light that would shine across the whole world.
And Krystia would sit at the center of that light, a queen of limitless power whose destiny would soon become legend.
“Now that I finally have your attention,” she said, smiling warmly, “let me describe the new Solaria…and the role each of you will play within it.”
***
Elade stood atop the crematorium’s second level and stared down at the corpse of the man whose life she had ruined. Tevek looked peaceful wrapped in his silver-blue Dawn tabard and gold-white Alliance baldric. His sword, Temperance, rested atop his chest, and his hands were folded across its blade. Flowers and jewels decorated the lining of his coffin, and the somber call of a trumpet echoed in the distance.
Despite the specter of war looming over the country, thousands of Solarians had come to pay their respects to one of Obsidian’s greatest heroes. And yet standing here alone, Elade realized she had nothing to say. There were no words to convey her feelings, no grand apology that would somehow make everything better. As much as she hated the Conclave for what they had done, right now she loathed herself even more. If Tevek had never stumbled upon her in Calhara, she and her partner, Varess, would have died together…and perhaps that would have been for the best. He would still be alive, and the alliance between the Dawn and the Solarians would have remained intact. Most importantly of all, the outcome of this war might not have seemed so bleak.
A hand slid into hers and squeezed it tightly. Krystia stood next to her, adorned in a thin golden crown and a regal robe. She was more radiant than ever in her royal trappings, but something had changed about her. Despite the sorrow in her expression, there was an icy glimm
er behind her eyes, a barely concealed challenge to anyone who questioned her legitimacy as the ruler of this mighty nation.
“He loved you, you know,” Krystia said quietly. “He was proud of everything you’ve accomplished.”
Elade winced. “And look what it brought him.”
Krystia squeezed harder. “He loved both of us. We’re sisters, you and I, and fate has given us a chance to right the wrongs of this world.”
“By turning away from the Dawn?”
“They deserve no better. First you, then Tevek, and now your friend Talroy…do you really believe them worthy of our trust?”
Elade shook her head. “No.”
Krystia nodded. Below, Selvhara said a prayer over her lover’s body and placed a few bits of incense around him. Her eyes were dry, even though they hadn’t been during most nights of their trip from Garos to Celenest. Elade, on the other hand, hadn’t cried once. She hadn’t slept either. The last few days were an indecipherable haze of pain and regret and rage.
“If the Last Dawn will not have you, Solaria will,” Krystia said. “Serve as my champion, sister. Fight under my banner.”
Elade glanced down to the shorter woman. There was definitely something different about her. She looked older somehow, but it was more than that. Instead of a petite little princess, she was a queen…powerful, determined, and in complete control.
“What would you have me do?”
“Anything you wish,” Krystia said. “You’re not a soldier and you shouldn’t be constrained like one. I just want you at my side.”
Elade turned back out to the mournful crowds. She wished Darius were here, but with the ongoing fighting at the borders and the lack of portals, he couldn’t afford to leave his soldiers without a commander. Jason and the others were below, mostly comforting their friend for her loss. Elade wanted to stay with them, to help them hunt down his father and discover what had happened in Lyebel. They were good people and she had grown fond of their company, but she couldn’t place them at risk.
The Godswar Saga (Omnibus) Page 87