by Davis Ashura
Linder Val Maharj, the Son of the Desert, stood alone within a field of wildflowers at twilight. The sun had already set, and rich reds, yellows, and oranges burnished the sky in jewel-like tones. Autumn was here, and the harvest moon hung above, silver and serene, but the trees lining the field remained clothed in their summer foliage, verdant and green. It was a warm evening.
Linder was a tall, well-built man of middle years with a dark hue. His face was too rugged and worn to be called handsome; the result of early years spent exposed to the heat, the cold, and the rain. His nose was an axe blade that cleaved his acne-scarred face in twain and the dark, forceful eyes of a raptor peered out from beneath heavy brows. Long, black hair, touched with streaks of gray, was tied in the back with a simple leather cord, and an enigmatic smile curved his thin, fierce lips as he held a bouquet of flowers. Though Linder lacked physical beauty, there was a commanding presence to him, an aura most women found attractive.
Not that another woman could have ever tempted him. In the almost three millennia Linder and Cienna, his wife, had been married, he had never once considered sharing the bed of another. His wife was his life and his treasure, his anchor in the world, and he rejoiced every day when he awoke and gazed upon her face. They were immortal, but eternity would not be time enough for their love.
He admonished himself for his distracted thoughts. He was here to arrange a bouquet for tonight’s dinner. He already held tulips and hyacinths and yellow roses along with some other flowers that he couldn’t name. But, he still needed some sprigs of honeysuckle. Cienna loved the fragrance of honeysuckle, and his wife wanted tonight to be perfect.
After all, their only child, Lienna would be sharing dinner with them.
Linder’s smile slipped at the thought of his daughter. She had been such a bright, happy child. So inquisitive. Brilliant in ways few could comprehend. So many secrets she had learned of Jivatma. Only Linder and Cienna exceeded her mastery. How then had she grown into such a distant, distrustful woman? Withdrawn and cold. It had been decades since Linder or Cienna had heard from her.
Occasionally, strange rumors reached them, stories of burnings and terror in the settlements; of a mad woman, running naked, with her hair matted and skin the color of leaves, who capered through small villages on the fringes of the great forest. She would set the buildings alight, screaming that the world, Arisa itself, demanded vengeance for the death of the forests and the murder of small animals. The settlers—whose only crime had been to work their fingers to the bone from sunup to sundown as they tried to make a life for themselves in the wilderness—had been helpless before her. They couldn’t stop her madness. Sometimes the killer was given a name: Suwraith: the Bringer of Sorrows. Other times, she was called Lienna.
Cienna had refused to believe the mad woman might be their own daughter, but doubt had often lingered within Linder’s breast. He had seen the devastation wrought by this Suwraith, and his people’s pain stabbed at his heart. He and Cienna had practically been Nanna and Amma to all of Humanity, and indeed people knew of them as the First Father and First Mother. To see so many slaughtered had left him trembling with rage.
But one day a year ago, just as quickly as the killings had begun, they had ended. Since that time, no one again heard the name Suwraith or Lienna.
Then yesterday, their daughter, after an absence of over fifty years, had asked to visit her parents. Cienna was excited, but Linder had reservations. What had their daughter been doing in all these years? Who was she now? How could they know, not having seen or spoken to her in more than half a century?
Linder shook his head, wanting to clear such troublesome thoughts from his mind, unaware that he was frowning. Suddenly, his body whipped around in the direction he knew was home. His pupils dilated and his nostrils flared as though seeking to capture some elusive scent. He focused on some unseen event occurring at the Palace on the Hill, the home he had shared with his wife for over nineteen hundred years. His face grew ashen and seemed to sag as he felt prickles run through his body. A look of horror stole over his face.
Cienna!
He drew on his Well and Voyaged to a plain, small room in the Palace. It was down the hall from the dining room where he had last sensed Cienna’s thoughts. Why couldn’t he do so anymore? He’d been able to ‘feel’ Cienna since that day three millennia ago when they had first released the power of the WellStone and brought life to a desolate world. The question raised a fresh terror in his mind.
He raced down the hallway, with no other thought than to reach his wife.
Immediately, he noticed the bodies.
Linder slowed to a stop. These were the people who had chosen to make their lives here at the Palace, as servants to the First Mother and the First Father. They were all good friends. Now, blood pooled beneath their corpses. Knife wounds marred their bodies, some with throats slit. Even in death, their eyes appeared tormented.
Linder barely held down his gorge. He resumed his run, praying and hoping that Cienna had been spared. His fear for her was an illness. His skin was hot and sweaty. His stomach was lead, and he couldn’t breathe. He felt as if he’d been mule kicked.
Faster, run faster was his mantra.
At last he came to the small dining room. It was an intimate space, square and highlighted by a round cherry wood table polished to a high sheen with seating for four. The light was soft and muted, and the walls were a sky blue. Above the hearth hung a painting of a smiling Linder holding a laughing Cienna. They were by the seashore, looking on as their then three-year-old daughter, Lienna played in the waves.
None of it mattered now.
Where was Cienna?
There!
She lay face up, unmoving on the far side of the table. Just like the servants, centered upon her chest was a gaping wound.
But Cienna’s murder had been different. Her clothes hung loose about her once lush and beautiful body, and her skin was pulled tight, her bones prominent. She appeared skeletal, as withered and dry as a roasted cornhusk. Writ large on her face was the torment of betrayal.
With an anguished cry that seemed to shake the room, Linder rushed to her and took her in his arms. His eyes watered as he wept with inconsolable grief. He rocked her back and forth gently, kissing her hair and keening like a stricken animal, crying out his grief and loss.
Time ended. He knew that even if he lived for another thousand years or even ten thousand, he would never recover from the pain of this moment.
His only hope and consolation was that Devesh would shelter Cienna, and he would find her waiting for him across the bridge of life.
“You found her.”
Linder startled. That voice. He recognized it.
He looked up. On the other side of table, standing in the entrance to the dining room was his daughter. She was a tall woman, still youthful despite her over-century of life. She was strikingly beautiful by any standards, or would have been had she not been covered in blood. She looked to have bathed in it. Her honey-blonde hair was soaked in it as was her face. And she was naked.
Tears still flowed from his eyes, but Linder no longer sobbed. “Lienna…?” Normally he had a clear, deep voice, a voice accustomed to command and obedience. Now his words came out as a weak croak. He was confused, consumed with misery, his reason for living dead in his arms, and here stood his daughter looking to have been dipped in a vat of blood. “What happened? Who did this? Do you know?” he asked.
Lienna seemed strangely untouched by all the tragedy surrounding her. She wore an indecipherable, confused smile on her face and stepped around the table, seeming to stalk him.
Lienna displayed a foot-long knife dripping with blood. “Whoever killed your wife used this thing.” She paused and tilted her head to the side as though confused or listening to an unheard voice. “I think it’s called the Withering Knife,” she continued, “or at least…I think that’s what it….” She trailed off into vacant silence.
A terrible suspicion gripped L
inder, one he worked to suppress. His daughter needed him. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
“Of course I’m hurt,” Lienna shrieked. “Over and over they cut me!” Her fisted hands slashed at the air. “Over and over with their sharp blades and axes, killing me! Maiming me! Ahh the agony! They kill me over and over again! A thousand times a thousand. Even now, I can feel them stabbing and stabbing! NO! Oh, for the love of mercy! NO! NO! NO!” She clenched her hair in her fists and squeezed her eyes tight, shaking her head back and forth and screaming as if she were tormented by demons only she could see or feel.
Linder stood by, sick with helplessness and unsure what to do.
It seemed Lienna would scream on forever, but with a final shriek, she stopped as suddenly as she had begun. Her eyes snapped open, wild and deranged while her hands slapped to her sides, tearing out fistfuls of hair in the process. She seemed not to notice as she grinned maniacally.
Linder’s suspicion deepened. He was beginning to understand who it was who had come to his home like a thief in the night and killed all whom he loved. “It was you,” he said softly, horrified that his daughter was the instrument of such evil.
“Yes, it was me,” Lienna admitted in a sibilant whisper. “Someone came here and killed everyone you loved,” she purred. “And she’ll kill you!” Quicker than thought, she threw her knife, burying it in Linder’s gut.
Linder reached for a chair to hold himself upright, but it slipped beneath his hand and clattered to the floor alongside him. He lay on his back and gasped with shock. His whole body was weak, boneless. Breathing was a chore, and he felt his life draining away.
Standing above him, Lienna smirked. “The blade withers you away till there’s nothing left. It steals your Well. Your Jivatma will be mine.” She tittered inanely as she bent and reached for the knife. She paused before taking the hilt and looked into Linder’s eyes. “This will hurt.”
She grasped the knife.
Earlier Linder had learned the meaning of despair. Now, he learned the meaning of pain. His back arched and a silent scream erupted from his lips. He was on fire. His whole body was aflame. Acid roared through his veins, each beat of his heart seeming to spread it further, making it more intense. The pain seemed to last for days, but in reality, it was only a few short seconds before Lienna released the blade’s hilt.
And in the time she held the knife, through the fog of agony, Linder had communion with his daughter, a gross parody of what he and Cienna had once shared. He learned her plans to destroy Humanity, leaving the survivors to live on as nomads, homeless wanderers subsisting on grubs and dirt as they had when Linder was a boy. The reasons were muddled and her thoughts and motivations shifted by the moment, driven by an overpowering anger and hatred. Lienna was insane, but the more fearsome truth was this: she could make real her twisted thoughts and ambitions.
For those with dedication, the Withering Knife could transform the wielder into something else, something never before seen on Arisa, a being like no other. Linder and Cienna had once considered such a transformation for themselves, but had ultimately set it aside. No one should be so powerful.
But Lienna had decided otherwise. She would be the first—and the last.
Linder had to escape. He had to stop her before she made real her hideous vision.
With his strength fading, Linder drew on the last fragment of the WellStone, the smooth, white rock hanging from a strip of leather around his neck. He drew on it for strength and grasped the Withering Knife by its hilt and pulled it from his failing body. He threw it aside, watching as it slid under the table, several feet from his nerveless hands. So much blood on the rug. Cienna would have hated such despoilment.
Lienna gasped and glared at the knife in betrayal. “You said you’d get them all. Especially him,” she accused the lifeless dagger. She bent down to retrieve it.
Linder didn’t have much time left. He had already tried to Heal himself with the WellStone, but the wound soaked up his attempts like a dry desert absorbed the rain. It would be the death of him, but there was still something he could do. He rolled over onto his side and rocked himself unsteadily to his feet. His daughter had finally retrieved the knife. She looked up as Linder stood.
“No!” she shrieked. “That’s impossible! You can’t do that!”
“It is possible,” he said, his voice weak. He drew more from the WellStone. He couldn’t stop his daughter. He lacked the strength, but perhaps he could thwart her will. He knew what she intended, but he knew what might see Humanity safe until others, wiser and stronger than he, found a way to defeat his mad daughter.
Lienna lunged forward, holding the knife before her. She was too late.
Linder Voyaged. He travelled, visiting cities throughout the world and leaving behind something to shelter them from the coming storm. It was a Cohesion of Blend, Shield, and Bow. It was an Oasis.
But there was one final work to be done. Linder Val Maharj, the Son of the Desert poured out all the wisdom he had mastered in his long life as well as his remaining Jivatma. All of it fit into an embarrassingly slim blue volume. He left it upon the doorsteps of the library of his final visitation: a proud, young city named Hammer.
Rukh was lifted upward, away from the shimmering blue disk. The memories of Linder Val Maharj were blurred amongst his own. He couldn’t recall his name. What was it? Was he Linder Val Maharj? Or Rukh Shektan? He wasn’t sure. Was the Sorrow Bringer His daughter, just as the Baels claimed? No. Or maybe yes. His daughter. Lienna. She’d been mortal once, though clearly mad even then. What of the Withering Blade? Could it really be the same weapon now being used by the Sil Lor Kum in Ashoka? His Wife, Cienna. Dead now. Murdered by Their own Daughter. His heart clutched with sorrow.
Someone shook his shoulder, calling urgently to him. A face peered down at him. He didn’t recognize her—he should, but he didn’t. Confusion still gripped his mind and memory, but her hair…it was the same color as His Daughter’s. Her face was shadowed, but the hair. And She was naked, just like the last time He had seen the thief in the night who had murdered everything He loved and tried to murder the world.
“Lienna!” He screamed.
Jessira was content. She finally had a chance to wash away all the dirt and grime she’d collected during their travels. And this wasn’t just a quick pass of a wet towel to wipe away the worst of the filth. No. The pond next to which they had set up camp gave her a chance to take a bath. A real one. She gloried in the simple actions of scrubbing herself clean as she liberally applied soap to skin and nails. She worked until all the grit and grime was scoured away. Her hair also merited special attention, heavy and limp as it was with caked in dirt, sweat, and oil. She sometimes wondered if she should cut it short like how some of her sister warriors wore theirs, but whenever she thought to do so, she would remember why she kept her hair long. Just like her camisole, her hair reminded her of her femininity. And the truth was Jessira liked her hair. She liked the feel of the wind rushing through it, waving it about like a banner. She liked the weight of it on her shoulders. She liked running her fingers through it. Or having Rukh do so.
Which was another reason she was taking extra special care tonight. She wanted everything to be perfect.
She glanced back at him. He sat by the fire, holding The Book of First Movement. He so wanted to read it. Just then, he looked her away, staring at her, not knowing she could see his features. He wore an expression of intense interest as he watched her. She was mostly hidden by a group of tall rushes, and he could only see her head and shoulders. His attention didn’t wane. She smiled and turned to the side, arching her back as she pulled her fingers through the long, wet mass of her hair. She made sure Rukh could see a flash of breast before she turned away.
She could almost hear his sigh of disappointment.
She chuckled. It was nice to know she could have such an effect on the man.
When she was finished with her bath, she dried off and wrapped herself in a towel. She made he
r way toward the fire and smiled. Just as she’d expected: Rukh had The Book of First Movement cracked open on his lap. He stared down at it. Her smile slipped. His expression was vacant and empty. Drool collected at a corner of his gaping mouth.
She ran to him, and shook him, shouting his name.
He didn’t answer. His head rolled about listlessly. He fell over on his side. She didn’t let fear overwhelm her good sense. She got Rukh back in a sitting position, not caring when her towel slipped off, leaving her naked. Modesty was the least of her concerns. She checked Rukh’s pulse, his breathing, his eyes, and put an ear to his chest to listen to his heart even as she conducted Jivatma, searching him for injury.
Nothing. He was fine as far as she could tell.
Her heart raced. Was he having some sort of seizure? He hadn’t wet himself. Her glance fell upon The Book. It glowed, a dim blue light, easily missed against the fire, but it was there. She snatched it from his hands.
He groaned and fell over onto his back.
She stood over him, shaking his shoulder as she urgently called his name.
His eyes fluttered open, full of confusion before an appalled awareness filled them.
“Lienna!”
In a motion that left her breathless, Rukh grasped her arms, scissored his legs between hers and spun her over. He slammed her on her back. Her breath exploded from her lungs. Rukh stared at her, his face intent and searching. He didn’t recognize her.
Jessira gasped, struggling to get a word out. Rukh had knocked the wind out of her, but it was quickly returning. She bent her leg, meaning to get it in between the two of them, but he jerked aside, blocking her. She twisted, and got both her feet on his hips. She pushed, and he lifted off the ground. But he was on her again before she could get to her knees.
Rukh held her pinned to the ground. Slowly recognition came to him. “Jessira?” he said, still sounding confused. “What did I….” Memory came to him, and horror came across his face. He scrambled off her. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”