Something has to be done.
Krudah woke in a cold sweat, heart pounding. The voice he had heard, his wife’s voice, echoed faintly in his ears.
The dark forest hummed with the constant drone of trillions of black-bodied insects that crawled across its every surface; they covered Krudah like a blanket, hung from overhead branches on silver threads, and swarmed the acovet trunks in a constant tide as regular as the sea. The shrill cries of the crü and the guttural rumbling of the walloch sounded in the darkness, creatures frightened of man that fled before civilization's relentless advancements. Light from the White Star's dawn set the canopy's edges to glowing, oft illuminating the massive, multi-limbed stalkers that strode across the top of the forest without ever once touching the ground, somehow silent despite their size.
The White Star's dawn stood like a landmark in time that told Krudah how long he had been hiding there among the acovet, far from home, yet he had given up caring about the passing of the stars, their cycles and spans. Time was irrelevant, except that it promised an eventual end.
Despite the laws of his gods that made suicide a sin, Krudah had tried to take his own life several times since his flight from Skor-Rek. He lacked the determination to open his veins with his knife or sword, and had only ingested enough poisonous pierka to make himself violently ill. He had hoped one of the forest’s many predators might choose him for a willing meal but they had remained in hiding.
Hunger growled within but Krudah refused to feed it. Only that resolve offered a feasible route to suicide. Still, there had been moments when sadness had faded and that brief lucidity had made rational arguments for his ongoing survival. He had fed several times during those moments, briefly convinced that his life might once again have meaning, until the dreams of his late wife had returned to shatter his will.
He knew that if he stayed still the memories of her would return to haunt him so Krudah rose and went naked and unarmed into the woods. He had no destination in mind. He only wanted to keep moving, to leave the memories of his wife behind him.
Krudah.
The distant cry struck like an arrow. It took the air from Krudah's lungs and stopped him where he stood, and his broken heart filled him with a familiar pain. Though he shook off the strange sensation, convinced that some masochistic element of his imagination was giving voice to his memories, the pain remained.
I am losing my hold on reality, he thought. The part of him that wished for death was glad for it.
Krudah began to run, stretching his limbs still somewhat numb from sleep. The insects underfoot could not avoid his steps and he made no effort to dodge them. Each satisfying crunch under his feet distracted him from his haunted memories.
Krudah!
The voice was so real, distant but clear, that he fell out of step and stumbled. He rolled and came up at once, tense and ready and listening. The forest was quiet again, save for the drone of insects, so after a moment, Krudah went in the direction of the shout. Moments later, it called his name again. Though the voice was feminine, it had a lower timber than his wife’s.
It called again, nearby, and Krudah slowed to a stop. “I’m here!” he shouted into the trees, frightening the nearby insects such that they started and scattered.
After a brief silence, the voice shouted, “Where?”
“Follow my voice and I shall follow yours.”
Somebody nearby laughed. Krudah found him quickly; a short, fit man in the rugged black attire of a Skor-Adal caliph with a spear on his back and a sword at his hip. His laughter echoed in his eyes.
Krudah shook his head in wonder. “Arvad."
“General.” Arvad looked Krudah up and down. “I knew the stories of your impressive manhood were exaggerated.”
“The forest is cold this morning.”
Another pair of caliphs emerged from the acovet behind Arvad. The woman, Aelida, whom Krudah had heard calling his name, beamed. “General.”
“Caliph. It is good to see you.”
“And good to see you, and your everything,” Zethyr said, breathless. His uniform hung on him; the smallest size the Skor-Adal made yet still too large for him. “Have you lost your clothes?”
“No, I just haven’t needed them.”
“And where is Czallah?”
Krudah thought of his copper-edged scimitar, one of the few belongings back at camp. “I have her. I am not myself without her. But then, I have not been myself of late regardless.”
There was an awkward silence that Aelida first found the strength to break. “Were you there, then?”
Krudah’s insides twisted. “What do you mean?”
“There are stories,” Arvad said. “They say there was screaming at your home. The doors were barred. By the time they broke them down, the screaming had stopped.”
“They found Koera,” Zethyr said. “She had been beaten. The whole place in disarray.”
“And you were gone,” Aelida said. “Nowhere to be found. Not for days. We finally found someone who said they saw you leaving through the south gate. We tracked you as best we could but lost your trail at the Edge.”
“Did you find them?” Arvad asked. Krudah furrowed his brow, not understanding. Arvad mirrored his look. “The criminals responsible, did you find them?”
Krudah searched for words but they eluded him. After a moment of watching him struggle, Aelida's face turned ashen white. “You didn’t come after those that killed them," she whispered. "You did it yourself and fled Skor's justice.”
The trees seemed to grow closer together and Krudah fought to take a breath. The nightmarish visions of his wife that he had been running from played before his eyes, her face alternately joyful and terrified. He shut his fists tight, and they felt hot and sticky with the blood it had taken him many attempts to wash off.
Arvad stared at Krudah, his face a wooden mask of disbelief. “How? Why?”
"It must have been jannir," Aelida said.
“You don’t have to tell us, General,” Zethyr said, holding his palms out to the other caliphs to keep their words at bay. “You don’t owe us an explanation.”
“His soul will surely need to explain his actions after his death,” Aelida said. “The scriptures are not unclear on the subject.”
“Look at him, Aelida,” Zethyr said. “He’s sick with grief.”
“You loved her...” Arvad muttered, looking away.
Krudah turned to run again, the only response he knew when confronted with an enemy he could not defeat with weapons, but the world spun and he fell to his knees. He tore at the dirt, crushing insects in his hands, taking the life out of them as he had his beloved wife.
Mourisiel I
Conspirators and Killers
Running water thundered in the labyrinth underneath Harivaz, shaking the stone walls. Theina could hear nothing else; not the crackle of her torch, nor her shoulders scraping against the narrow tunnel walls, nor even her own whispered words as she repeated a memorized series of turns. Each passage seemed identical and only she knew the way. If she got lost, Theina and her companions would wander those tunnels until starvation took them.
She glanced back, taking comfort in the presence of her allies. Cava met her eyes and Theina smiled bravely. Behind the grizzled ex-soldier, the torchlight revealed the others, armed and ready for what lay ahead.
Theina's heart pounded faster as she neared what should have been the final turn. Then, a sigh of relief. At the tunnel's end, a staircase ascended into a sub-cellar of the Harivaz palace’s wine cellar.
It was the only exit Theina had found after hundreds of hours spent exploring and mapping the labyrinth, save the cliffside opening behind the waterfall that she had first found in her childhood. She had long kept the labyrinth secret; first out of a childhood whim to have a place that was hers alone and later because she had begun to think, and rightly so, that the labyrinth might lead into the otherwise impenetrable palace.
An iron gate separated them from the sub-cellar
. On narrow pedestals, many round fire pits filled with perpetually-burning Havok stone illuminated the otherwise empty room and its many fat, stone pillars. Arched halls connected to storage rooms and, at the center, a wide stone staircase went up to the wine cellar.
"What hubris the Mourisiel have," Cava muttered, gesturing to the absence of a gate lock. His voice rumbled like rocks in a grinder.
“They named the country after themselves.” Madryn licked her lips after most words, her long purple tongue overflowing. “I’m not surprised they think themselves untouchable.”
“Is it hubris, though?” Sawen whispered, as though the walls might be listening. “Or foolishness?”
“Or it’s a trap and we’re all of us doomed,” Madryn said.
Razhier shivered, already hugging himself for warmth. “Don’t say that.”
Theina opened the gate slowly at first but then all at once when the hinge screeched. She waited with baited breath but when neither servants nor guards came, she passed through with her companions in tow.
Cava came to Theina’s side. “We’ve made it. You did it.”
“We’re not there yet.”
The gate to the wine cellar was shut with an iron chain and lock. Squinting with her one good eye, Madryn set about picking the lock while Cava and Theina kept watch, even though the cellar appeared abandoned save for the krippers that watched from the ceiling corners, eyes green and red and shifting.
“Where are the guards?” Theina whispered.
When at last the lock fell open in Madryn's hands, Theina gave her an encouraging pat on the back and led the way through the gate. Only Razhier stayed behind; the youngest of their company, he had been selected to keep the way clear. He smiled to Theina and whispered something that went unheard.
In the wine cellar, multitudinous racks of clear glass bottles and massive barrels with fermentation equipment cast abstract shadows. The krippers were less dense there, though several skittered from shadow to shadow among the wooden beams above. The only sign of human life was a series of steps in the dust, half covered.
The final staircase wound its way up to the palace proper. A quiet snoring drifted down, and Cava pushed ahead to take the lead, knife drawn. The others followed, hands on their own weapons. A cry from some surprised servant might mean the end of their venture, and the Mourisiel would certainly close up the labyrinth entrance entirely to prevent future incursions.
Seated on a stone stool at the top of the stairs, a single guard slept with her chin on her chest. Cava looked to Theina for approval and she gave it with a curt nod.
Cava placed the tip of his knife just under the guard’s helmet. In one sudden, harsh motion, he plunged the blade in and across the guard’s throat. She woke, wide-eyed, struggled for a moment, then crumpled into Cava’s waiting arms. He lowered her to the floor quietly.
They gathered at the top of the stairs beside the guard’s body, eyes on Theina. “We’ve come too far now to go back,” she told them. “From here on, we either see this mission through or we die trying.”
Sawen put his hand into the center of their circle, bold yellow eyes gleaming in the torchlight. “Amdara dies by my hand tonight.”
Madryn placed her hand on top of Sawen’s. “Lady Pasala by mine.”
Cava was next. “Crown Prince Vakara.”
Theina put one hand on top of theirs and the other below them, gripping and holding them together. “And I will see to it that Qataga never wakes again. Don’t wait for the others. Finish your task and get back to Razhier as quickly as you can.”
They nodded their understanding and then separated. Cava lingered a moment, his hand on Theina’s shoulder. “I’ll see you again soon.”
She watched him go, wishing not for the first time that he had been her true father. After he disappeared around the corner did she gather her courage and make for Lord Qataga Mourisiel’s chambers.
Havok fire pits like those they had passed in the cellar cast light throughout the stone halls and wide rooms of torn tapestries and dusty furniture, though the heat they gave warred with the cold air that burst through numerous drafts in the exterior walls. Through the tall windows Theina passed, the White Star’s dawn approach began to lighten the crimson sky. It had taken them hours to traverse the labyrinth, longer than anticipated. The palace’s inhabitants would soon be awake.
The citizens of Harivaz whispered stories of the Mourisiel family's poverty, offering anecdotal evidence such as the release of dozens of palace servants from their roles and cycles of trimming the size of the army. Theina hadn't previously known how much to believe the tales, as the Mourisiel family seemed to live in luxury, but she hadn't been in the palace long before she came to think them true. Though she crept about slowly, peeking around each corner and through each keyhole before advancing, she saw no guards stationed or patrolling, and no servants at work. The palace seemed abandoned until she reached the hall just outside Qataga’s chambers. There, two armored guards in Mourisiel’s maroon and white tabards stood on either side of the king's door, speaking in low conversation.
Another of the conspirators, a member of the royal court, had provided a plan of entry; windows in nearby rooms opened on stone sills wide enough, one hoped, to reach the windows in Qataga's room. The side chambers were supposed to be unoccupied, yet just as Theina reached for the door handle, footsteps creaked in the floorboards on just the other side.
Theina threw herself against the wall just as the door opened. Serendipitously, the hinges whined louder than the sound of her body striking the stone, and the guard who stepped out remained unaware of her. He shut the door without turning and stepped up to the balcony overlooking the palace hall below, humming a tune.
Breath held, Theina watched him, waiting to see what he would do. In her youth, her father had trained her to fight, but she had yet to take a life and she hoped never to have to, with the single exception of Mourisiel's king. Qataga's guards were among the people of Mourisiel that she and her companions hoped to protect, despite their service to the crown; few among Mourisiel's citizenry had the fortitude to decline a role in the palace where they might find security and safety and warmth. Yet Theina had long ago accepted what she might have to do to accomplish the task of assassinating the king and the prices she might have to pay.
And so, when the guard began to turn, Theina lunged. Biting back a cry, she put her shoulder into his waist and heaved him up and over the railing, sending him screaming to the floor below. He landed with a loud clatter and was still.
Theina dashed back through the door and brought it nearly shut as Qataga’s guards rushed to the balcony, shouted down to the guard below, and went to the stairs. She glanced back at the window but listening to the animated voices of the guards below, she decided she no longer had time to chance a careful walk on the narrow ledge outside to Qataga's window. Instead, she crept out of the room and made for Qataga’s chambers, trusting that his guards would be occupied long enough for her to find the king's throat with her blade.
In Qataga's chamber, light from the White Star's dawn filtered down in broad beams through the vaulted glass ceiling, forming a golden halo around the canopied bed at the center. Around the perimeter, clay pots housing plants with broad green leaves and twisting white branches decorated the many shelves. All was silent save for the king's tremulous snoring.
Heart pounding, Theina drew back the sheer white canopy. She had only ever seen Qataga Mourisiel from afar, a gray-haired figure on the palace veranda propped up behind his sons and daughter. Up close, he looked far less regal; a trembling old man in flabby, mottled skin. She watched him sleep for longer than she should have, delaying the murder she had come to do. Qataga Mourisiel had ruled his eponymous land for decades, and had put down rebellion after rebellion with increasing cruelty. His people wanted the democracy and individual rights that the rebel leaders spoke of, but Qataga refused to listen. He and his family sat at the very top of a hierarchical feudal system that had lasted ce
nturies. They had no reason to surrender their power to the people.
There was only one way the people of Mourisiel would ever be free. Theina knew it as well as Cava and the others. As long as a single Mourisiel lived and could claim the throne, the people of Harivaz and the smaller tundra towns would obey them.
With a deep breath, Theina drew the knife from her waist, eyes on Qataga’s neck. She had imagined this moment countless times. Now that she was so close to realizing her dream, it almost seemed as though it had been too easy.
A twang and a brief whistle preceded a sharp, piercing pain in her lower back. She screamed and twisted, feeling the arrow’s shaft where it stuck out of her. The room spun and she slid to the floor, each breath more difficult than the last. Her knife fell from her fingers and clattered to the ground, unbloodied. An alarm bell tolled, breaking the silence, and men shouted in distant rooms of the palace.
Emerging from the corner shadows, a black-clad man with a dark, trim beard revealed himself. Stoic, he lifted his bow and aimed a second arrow. Theina found a last bit of strength and held up her empty hands. “Please. I do this for Mourisiel.” Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, hot and wet as the blood running down her back.
“Impossible,” the sinister man said. “For I am Mourisiel and you do not do this for me.”
Camarei II
The Verdant Knight
Valkil woke to beautiful singing, a pitch-perfect, melodious series of notes that formed words in the tonal Moridah language. Light from the White Star snuck in under the curtains, soft and encouraging, but Valkil twisted away to find a cool spot in the bedsheets. “Isn’t it a holiday or something?”
In the corner, Valkil’s wife Ahlaha brushed her hair before a mirror, dressed in a slip made sheer by the light. “You know it isn’t,” she sang.
It had taken Valkil several cycles of intense study to learn the Moridah language and he still couldn’t speak it, his singing voice incapable of hitting each pitch with the necessary perfection; in Moridah, words were sequences of intervals between notes, regardless of any vocal pronunciation. Children who grew up hearing it rarely struggled to speak it, but it was rare for outsiders to learn the skill.
White Star Phase: Book One of the Ascendants Chronicle Page 2