Tragedy (Forsaken Lands)

by Cooper, Sydney M.

  Kthala, rueven, lovace and wren. She mixed the potion absentmindedly.

  She remembered the day she discovered her talent for healing. Her dog had been ill for days. It lay on the grass, eyes glazed over, with barely an ounce of lifeforce left. Six years old and hardly bigger than the dog, Aia felt the instinct before she recognized what it was. There was a bright white light, and Aia felt so very tired. The dog began to stir.

  Kthala, rueven, lovace and wren. She capped the bottle and shook it vigorously, waiting for the clear liquid to turn red.

  Aia recalled the day her mother caught her in the forest playing with herbs, her eyes wide when divinity lit on Aia's fingertips. Her mother had been thrilled, at least for one day. It was only ever for a day. The early healer’s training came, and with it the disappointment. Mistakes were unacceptable. ‘Smile, your ungrateful little bitch. Smile or I'll make you smile. Smile or you'll never see that grandmother of yours again.’

  Kthala, rueven, lovace and wren. The poison tasted like spiced rose petals.

  The day she came home to her grandmother's little cottage, she was a mess. She was thinner than she had ever been, with skin so pale that her grandmother worried she was ill. Dolores's hands were instruments of immense kindness. She hugged her, fed her, and told her of all the things she might one day become. Her grandmother had wasted all that energy on someone who would never matter at all.

  Aia stumbled to her bed, relishing the feeling of the mattress. Even as her vision blurred and her soul seemed to float far beyond her body, a distant, familiar voice that had been with her since Seldat called out to her.

  Please, don't leave me here alone.

  * * *

  Three Days Prior

  Teveres was losing track of how long he'd sat staring out the window of the Stone Corridor Inn.

  In the 7 years since the onset of Nivenea's decline, the trade district's "Stone Corridor" - so named for the extravagant mosaic galleries it os dlleriesnce contained - had been progressively taken over by more profitable underworld markets. This was where prohibited drugs, prostitutes and ask-no-questions traders could be found. The alleyways were peppered with the work of artists long since driven to financial ruin, slowly decaying like the cave paintings of a forgotten civilization. The fall-from-grace atmosphere matched Teveres's mood perfectly.

  The dark, unfinished walls of his room in the dismal little inn surrounded a simple collection of furniture. The contents of his bag were sprawled out over the unkempt bed. In the window he saw his reflection, hair dyed a deep black and eyes…the eyes in the reflection belonged to him, and somehow they haunted him. He was a different man than the one who left Ilvan more than a month ago. His face, once rounded with privilege, had grown gaunt. Life had physically changed him.

  A storm was picking up again, the raindrops on his window gaining speed as they flowed downward like so many tears. The glass was crying while his eyes were dry, wrung out by many sleepless nights.

  While he tried not to dwell on the circumstances of his departure from his home in Ilvan, his dreams plagued him with the events of that day, of his family and Veni, the woman he loved. They were together for almost a year before the attack. She was beautiful with long, dark hair to the small of her back and brilliant blue eyes. She was not gifted with divinity, but Teveres preferred it that way. She had never been forced to take a life. All she wanted was to assume her father's position at the school and raise children in Ilvan - a theoretically simple, obtainable goal.

  The last time he saw Veni, she was in his family's living room. He could not remember face of the other man in the room with him. He only remembered that he was the man who slaughtered his sister Pellen with an axe while she prayed at the hearth. The man’s face was not visible when Teveres dislocated both of the attacker’s arms behind his back. When he drove the dagger deep into the man's gut, the stench of blood and perforated intestines flooded the downstairs. He stabbed the axe man over and over, the screams inaudible against the ringing in Teveres's ears.

  Teveres waited until the screams peaked to take the man’s mind, using it to burn him from the inside out. As his victim's soul left the earth, Teveres was overcome with pleasant warmth. His muscles relaxed, his breath came slower, the entire world felt right. It was much like being drunk, except so much more satisfying.

  The ecstasy left him when he looked up to see Veni, tears in her eyes, staring at him from the doorway. He didn't notice her until it was all over, but it was clear she had seen too much. She was petrified with fear. He suddenly became conscious of the blood that covered most of his body. He tried to speak and failed. He tried to move towards her, and she flinched. She was clutching her throat. She might have screamed as well, but he would have never heard her.

  He called her name. The words she spoke were broken in his head. The last thing he heard clearly before she ran away was, 'Get away from me.’

  So he did.

  That was six weeks ago, and since then, he lived from one moment to the next. He had stolen most of his food on the road to Nivenea and slept in abandon shacks or ditches. He stopped to bathe too infrequently; his clothes lay upon a second skin of congealed dust. In his filth nhes his fio one would recognize him as Teveres, son of Ilvan's high priest, the only survivor of the massacre which left his family and most of the surrounding households dead.

  He suspected that he was the one being named as the murderer. It gave him some small comfort. If he was to be arrested and executed, at least the charges were half true.

  Rather than turn himself in, Teveres decided to make a desperate attempt at a new life in Nivenea. It was in Nivenea that he could blend into a city too large for its time, find a dead-end job and maybe keep himself from racking up an even higher body count. And then…

  If he was to go on living, he needed a purpose. He searched for days to find one only to discover emptiness, just like the gods who had abandoned him, like the empty home he would never return to.

  It was ironic that in times of uncertainty he reached for the techniques he learned as former clergy. Closing his eyes, he began to lead his mind through meditation, sinking himself into a place where he was free of his intrusive thoughts. He dwelled on the smoky grayness of solitude that calmed his thundering heart.

  He could have been that way for an hour or more before a loud crash snapped him out of his trance. The desk rattled as something hit the wall in the room next door. Teveres cursed under his breath, annoyed at the interruption. He glared at the wall as if it might explain itself.

  There was a second thump, then a third. Tension was seeping through the cracks in the walls, along with a fear intense enough to quicken his pulse. Teveres grabbed his dagger from the window sill, standing at the ready. Suddenly the clatter ceased, and words took their place.

  Two muffled voices sounded from the room, one male and one female. While they made efforts to restrict their volume, he could clearly discern the male tones snapping at the woman, whose voice fluctuated with emotion. The scenario was one that Teveres had heard before. It was so classic that it infuriated him.

  The woman next door was being beaten, he was sure of it. Standing by the door with his dagger clenched in his fist, he debated his next set of actions. If he were not a fugitive the choice would have been clear. Unfortunately years of experience had taught him that bystanders live peaceful lives, while heroes live short ones.

  The instinct of survival was overtaken when the woman cried out and he flinched at the power of her pain. He ventured into the empty hallway lined with doors to the door beside his. He pushed it open slowly.

  The individuals in the room were barely visible, only the light from the streets to illuminate them. The tall, broad-shouldered man had a young woman pinned against the wall shared with Teveres's quarters. The desk and chair had been tousled about the room in the altercation. The man was so engrossed in his task that he didn't register Teveres's presence, even as Teveres locked the door behind him. The woman was making a conce
rted effort to avert her eyes so Teveres could come up behind her aggressor. Teveres pressed his blade to the man's neck.

  "You woke me up," Teveres murmured into the man's ear.

  Both of them froze. The man’s anger was so potent that Tev wient thaeres did not need his innate telepathy to test its sincerity. Without speaking, the man elbowed Teveres in the ribs hard enough to force the air from his lungs. Taking advantage of the sudden distraction, the woman rolled out of the way. She backed up against the window, a torn shirt barely hanging off of one shoulder. Teveres, angered by the blow, let his dagger pierce the skin of the man's shoulder as he shoved him face-first into the wall. Muscles tensed beneath him, but Teveres was stronger.

  "You're making a mistake, friend," the man growled.

  Teveres drove his knee into the back of his victim's knee. "Apologize to the lady."

  "She's a whore."

  Teveres played the man's mind like a well-tuned guitar. The man’s words were halting. "I-I am sor… sorry."

  The man grunted in protest. Even a simple mind could often tell when it was being manipulated.

  Teveres looked to the girl, her short hair bleached so white that it almost fluoresced in the dark. She was not overly attractive, like so many street workers he had met. "You should go," Teveres told her. "Leave."

  She was speechless a moment, hands clenching and un-clenching by her sides. Bewildered eyes darted between Teveres and her rapist before she made her decision. She forced open the window and bolted out into the darkness.

  "Now I'm going to let you go, and you're not going to touch me, do you understand?" Teveres's lips were close enough to brush the man's ear.

  The man’s barking laugh grated on Teveres's control. "I swear on the seven sisters."

  Teveres abruptly released him. The man was roughly his height, with a right-angle jaw and brown hair that hung down to his shoulders. The casual look on the rapist's face set Teveres on alert.

  The man shook his head. "You're a new kind of stupid, son."

  A short stick of glowing kelspar ore appeared in the man’s hand. Panic struck, but Teveres could not move fast enough to attack or flee. He knew that if he wanted to, he could steal the man's life where he stood. The temptation was only fleeting - the idea of taking another life as he had done intentionally only twice was repulsive. He would rather suffer.

  The bolt of kelspar slammed into Teveres's chest. Pain shot through his bones, sending him gasping to his knees. His dagger clattered to the floor, as useless as his divinity. Weaponized kelspar could incapacitate the highest of the high priests.

  When the attacker knelt to Teveres's level, Teveres stared him down, seeing into the depths of the man's soul, a shriveled shadow consumed by the lust for power. The man tugged on his sleeve to reveal the tattoo of law on the underside of his forearm: three red diamonds connected by a thin line. He was a Jusal He was tice, an enforcer of order in the world.

  "You don't meddle in a man's affairs," the Justice growled.

  Paralyzed but shaking from the inside out, Teveres spat out his words. "Then don't fuck around with innocents."

  The blow to his face stung in the shape of the Justice's fist. "Are you blind, boy? I am Justice and that girl…" the Justice licked his lips, "That whore is filthy."

  "Sorry, I thought the filthy whore here was you." Teveres flashed a feral smile. A distant part of him hoped that the young woman he defended would find freedom and help someone else, but the better part of his reasoning told him that this would not be the case. When the club of kelspar hammered him across the temple and darkness began to claim him, he welc

  omed it.

  Chapter 1

  "Dammit!" The cracking of the fire was almost loud enough to cover her curses. Blood dripped from her fingertips onto the cool, white cloth that might someday become a dress. She paid six chella eggs at the nearest trader for the cloth, and despite all her abilities, she struggled to coax the fabric into a dress-like shape. Her grandmother had taught her many things, but patience was not one of them. She scowled, glaring at her sewing needles with the worst intentions.

  Outside the window of her one-room house, Aiasjia could see the sun touching the tip of the University spire in Nivenea. The stepped pyramid made of whitestone and silver towered over all the buildings in the capital, a city protected on all sides by the hills of Layvin's Embrace. Aia's little home was nestled within the god's hills, looking down on the city. She was the city's gargoyle, watching over its workings from afar.

  The setting of the sun alerted her to the dwindling time she had left to finish the dress. She was to attend the University ball at the request of the baroness Nixx. Nixx was a patient of Aia's nearly a year ago, when Nixx became entrapped in a life-threatening scandal. She had been using tincture of fire imported from the southern lands, forbidden by the clergy of Nivenea, to help her remain awake for longer hours. When her condition became out of control, it was Aia who was trusted to deal with the matter discretely. Discretion was her most marketable attribute.

  If Aia could have turned down the subsequent ball invitation, she would have. Noblepersons dressed in flowery clothing, worthless chatter and insufferable music held no appeal for her. The University itself was tainted with the memories of her attempted suicide two years earlier. She tried to avoid the place when she could. The people in Nivenea proper rejected her long ago.

  A nice bolt of fabric or a saddle would have been fine gifts in exchange for saving the baroness' life, but alas, it was the ball invitation that Nixx had offered. It would have been rude tn>

  Before she could thread her needle again there was a knock at the door. She knew who it was without looking. "Come in, Delia."

  Delia's eyes were barely visible above the bundle of firewood in her arms. It looked as if it weighed as much as she did. Dropping her sewing, Aia moved to help her arrange the wood by the hearth.

  "I know it's not much," Delia apologized, her high-pitched voice still that of a young girl. "Father said he would have more next week."

  "It's plenty for now. Here, sit." Aia settled Delia down at the table and busied herself pouring a mug of tea. She kept a kettle on the hearth to maintain the humidity in the air. Early autumn nights were unseasonably cold of late. "I take it your father has been busy."

  Delia had already threaded Aia's abandoned needle with angelic generosity and set about finishing the dress. "The northern woods are too low right now so he's been working in the west instead… lots of people want wood but we can't keep enough of it."

  "And your mother?" Aia asked, sitting opposite Delia.

  "No fits."

  "Good." Delia's mother suffered from seizures, which made it difficult for her to split the wood her husband brought home. Since Delia turned 13 she had been doing the work in her mother's place, a dangerous and taxing job for a child. Lacking the money to seek a "real" healer, they had turned to Aia for a weekly supply of consecrated herbs. In return, Aia received all the wood that she needed.

  Delia fell silent, and Aia could feel the stormy change in her mood. Aia glanced out the window nervously, where the sun was at half-spire. She hesitated to ask about the shift, sensing a lengthy conversation. "What is it, Delia?"

  Delia's hands slowed, nearing the end of the last seam on the dress. Her skin, sun kissed from days working outdoors, lost its rosy pallor. "I've been going into the city evenings. I found work."

  Aia's soul ached, but her gaze was steady, non-judgmental. “You’re asking me for the drying herbs."

  She didn't answer, but she didn't have to. The shame on Delia's face mirrored the expression of every other sub-legal prostitute in Aia's care. While the temples throughout Elseth’s Land offered sex for money, the encounters were always sanctioned by the gods. The sexual acts served as offerings; the gods preferred physical feats above all other gifts. More voracious appetites were served by women of the streets.

  "This isn't the only way for you to make money... it's not..." Aia sighed, "You haven't
already, have you?"

  "Once."

  Aia didn't ask before she placed a hand on Delia's belly. Her womb was still small and free of life. "Then you've been lucky."

  A cascade of tears began to stream down Delia's face. "After Derran died father worked so hard," she said, speaking unnaturally fast.Derran was going to be clergy. Derran was going to take care of us. I…" She sniffed, primly folding the finished dress in her lap. "I was never like him. He should never have died."

  No, he shouldn't have. "You have so many talents, Delia," Aia smiled in spite of the memories of Delia's late brother. "You fixed my problems today. You're a wonderful seamstress."

  Delia just shrugged.

  Even without an engagement to run off to, Aia knew that one conversation was not going to be enough to help Delia. Reaching in her pocket, Aia withdrew four rough quartz stones. "I want to see you here again tomorrow. This should be more than you would have made in a night."

  Delia withdrew, shaking her head. "We owe you so much-"

  Aia forced the gems into Delia's hand. "Then you can return them to me someday."

  Delia pocketed the quartz, her face contorted in confusion. "Will you have the herbs tomorrow?"

  "We'll see." Aia laced her voice with a tone of finality. "Thank you for coming to me, Delia." Carefully leading her out the door, Aia bid Delia good-bye.

  When the door closed, Aia leaned back against it, feeling too heavy for her own bones.

  She had no moral objection to prostitution, and indeed, many of her patients were sex workers. Delia was different. Delia didn't deserve to live that kind of life. Circumstances had shattered Aia's own dreams - though she was happy with her off-record home clinic, Aia mourned for the life she once thought she would have. She wouldn't see Delia throw away her potential. Delia could still be saved.

  Saving one girl's dreams would have to wait, at least for the duration of the evening. Looking in the mirror set over her bed, Aia let her hair fall over her shoulders in poorly-organized wavelets. She wore no paint on her face as the women of the city did, her lavender-grey eyes stark enough against her painfully pale skin. People rarely referred to her as 'beautiful.' The best her former lover had been able to come up with was "pixie-like," with her wide set cheekbones and pointed chin. The descriptor was accurate enough. She had given up on aspirations of wooing men years ago.