She closed her eyes, and the letter fell to the ground.
***
Shaedra Nafal growled as she pulled herself free from the seemingly endless pile of debris covering the Hall of Innovation. Her body ached as it never had before, and she gasped for air while lying on her back, staring up at the full moon hanging ominously in the sky. Dried blood—both hers and the normal human variety—covered the remnants of her jacket. The lacerations scarring her body had scabbed over but not healed, and her wounded arm hung at her side as limply as ever. She tried to draw in enough power to begin the regeneration process, but there was none to be found.
Cadotheia was dead, a corpse-strewn graveyard and a gaping hole in the Fane. Shaedra didn’t know how long she had been unconscious—days, weeks? Certainly it was the longest stretch since her transformation. She was surprised she’d woken up at all; she assumed the hunger would have wholly consumed her by now.
She slowly brought herself to her feet and surveyed the wreckage of the city. Beams of moonlight cut through the haze of ash and sulfur hanging over the city like a pestilent cloud. She wondered what had become of the others. Had Eve managed to flee before the building collapsed? Had she and Zach been able to escape the Defiling energies before they lashed out? Had Maltus and the others found their friends?
Shaedra walked over to sit upon what remained of the stone wall that had once encircled the building. The air was quiet, still…and she couldn’t stop the old memories from rushing to the surface.
“At least you can’t blame this one on me,” she whispered. She glanced around for a few moments, but Alex was nowhere to be found. Perhaps even a ghost couldn’t find a foothold in this graveyard.
She sighed and rubbed a hand across her cold, pale cheek. For the first time in ages, she actually wanted to talk to him. She wanted to see if he approved of what she’d done. It was a bizarre feeling, she had to admit, but the last time they’d spoken she almost felt like they’d made some sort of peace…
Maybe all of this had ruined it. With luck, Eve and the others were still alive, and at the very least, the girl hadn’t been the one to sunder the Fane—Chaval had done that. As it turned out, though, his power had probably inflicted just as much damage. And the worst part was that he would still get what he wanted in the end. The rest of the country would treat this tragedy like another Kalavan and rally around it. They would attempt to destroy the magi once and for all.
Shaedra bit down on her lip and stood. She wasn’t sure what she’d actually accomplished. Maybe she had kept the Avenshal in check after all—maybe she had gotten through to Eve and legitimately changed the future.
But somehow, looking around at this barren wasteland, it seemed like a cold comfort. The damage had been done, and somewhere out there the war for Arkadia had already begun.
She shook her head and began to walk away. Her sending stone was nowhere to be found, unfortunately, but she could try to reach Maltus in the Dreamscape if he was still alive. Or perhaps she could find a way to—
Something slammed into her back and hurled her forward into a slab of rock. She winced as pain spiked throughout her body, and she twisted her head to try and catch a glimpse of her attacker. Her mouth gaped open when her eyes found him.
Behind her stood a haggard man, his clothing as beaten and torn as hers. Luminescent blue blood dripped from the wounds covering his body.
“What have you done to me?” Simon Chaval stammered. He dropped to his knees and clutched at his chest, then roared like a wounded animal.
Shaedra couldn’t feel him in the Fane. All she could sense were two empty voids and their insatiable hunger, suffering together beneath the pale moonlight.
To Be Continued
Appendix
~Dramatis Personae~
The Heroes
Evelyn DeShane: female, second-year university student
Zachary Lagrand: male, Arkadian soldier
The Valmeri Seven
Simon Chaval: male, owner of Steamworks, Industrialist leader
Gregori Danev: male, entrepreneur and information broker
Tara DeShane: female, the Prophetess of Edeh
Sister Jean Lashowe: female, priestess of Edeh
Glenn Maltus: male, professor and magister
Karyn Marose: female, Mayor of Selerius
Jack Polard: male, freelance healer
The Enclave
Grand Magistrix Veldara: female, leader of the Magister’s Council
Magister Organis: male, councilor
Magister Talkas: male, councilor
Magister Wilhelm: male, councilor
Other
Janel: male, President of Arkadia
Aram Kolasi: male, Danev’s bodyguard
Amaya Soroshi: female, Chaval’s bodyguard
Shaedra Nafal: female, Vakari assassin
~Names and Places~
Abalor: Once Edeh’s husband and the god of freedom, defeated by the Kirshal centuries earlier.
Arkadia: A nation-continent in the western hemisphere, declared its independence from Esharia roughly 200 years ago.
Avenshal: the Dark Messiah of the Edehan religion, said to be a woman corrupted by Abalor and destined to destroy the Fane.
Balorite: A worshipper of Abalor
Cadotheia: the largest city in western Arkadia and the center of Industrialist power.
Crimson Eclipse: An order of bodyguards sworn to defend the magi
Dusty: Slang term for Industrialist, a supporter of the Industrial political party and cultural movement.
Edehan: A worshipper of Edeh; the dominant religion in Arkadia
Enclave: A cabal of magi created by the Kirshal as the militant arm of the Edehan church. Their primary goal is to destroy Defilers and control the teaching of magic.
Esharia: The largest and most populous continent in the world, home to a dozen loosely unified nation-states.
Fane: Literally “the temple of Edeh” and the realm beyond death for souls claimed by Edeh. It is the source of all magic and all life.
Flensing: The “feedback” a mage experiences while weaving the Fane. Can be crippling or lethal to magi who weave beyond their limits.
Lushden: A large city in eastern Arkadia.
Kirshal: The Edehan Messiah said to have unified Esharia and defeated Abalor many centuries ago.
Krata: Literally “untested,” but often used as a slang term to describe a dabbler in magic, typically pejorative. Krata cannot muster enough power to face the Flensing, which distinguishes them from magi.
Kreel: A fool, but more pejorative
Mage: One who is trained in how to weave the energy of the Fane. A krata becomes a mage when he or she passes the Oath Rituals.
Selerius: The capital of Arkadia, situated on the east coast.
Shakissa: Ancient goddess of love and mercy still worshipped actively in Sunoa.
Shuvo: A common magi slur for “military hardhead.”
Sunoa: A small country in south-eastern Esharia noted for its fine arts and music. Torbo: Magi slur to describe non-weavers.
Vakar: Formerly a nation in southwest Esharia known for its isolated aristocracy and warrior culture. It was completely destroyed three centuries ago by Defiling magic.
Void: The realm of nothingness after death. Edehans believe it is the destination for all souls who refuse to worship her.
The following is an excerpt from The Last Goddess by C.E. Stalbaum, currently available on all e-reader platforms!
Haven’s grand bazaar smelled like wet gorillas. Nathan Rook had thought as much from the first moment he stepped into the city four years ago. It didn’t matter that he’d only seen a gorilla once, or that the hulking beast had been as dry as an Ebaran summer at the time. Rook just knew that the eclectic mix of imported animals, fabrics, and spices filling the bazaar always reminded him of damp primates, and he wouldn’t describe it any other way.
“Uh oh,” Van muttered, squinting off towards a moving caravan to their
left.
“Trouble?” Rook asked as he pretended to inspect a ring from a jewelry stand.
“Maybe. I think those merchants are Sunoan.”
Rook frowned. “Damn. That probably means they have dresses.”
“And shoes,” Van added. “Don’t forget shoes.”
Rook did his best to keep a straight face while risking a furtive glance over at Rynne. To her credit, she hadn’t even dignified their taunts with an annoyed glare. She remained perfectly in character encased in her battered armor, the Vakari-style war paint around her cheeks and eyes glistening in the afternoon sun. Still, he knew they would hear about it later.
“No sign of Marek,” Van said after another minute. “You sure he’s—”
“He’ll be here,” Rook soothed, placing the ring back on the rack and eliciting a disappointed sigh from the shopkeeper. “Let’s go check out those Kimperan weapons.”
They made their way across the bustling street, his two bodyguards doing their best to intimidate people without actually touching them. At six and a half feet tall and bristling with muscle, Van didn’t need much help with that. Rynne, standing barely over five, required assistance from some impressively padded boots, but most of the people here understood the danger of messing with a Vakari mercenary—even a short one—and gave her a wide berth.
Rook nodded politely to the weapon merchant and glanced idly over the stock. As usual, Kimperan innovation didn’t disappoint, but he wasn’t really paying much attention to the new flintlock pistols or extended-cartridge crossbows. Instead he peered past them towards an unassuming blonde man descending the bazaar’s south ramp.
“That’s our guy,” Van murmured. “Same meeting spot?”
“No reason to change it,” Rook said.
He waited a full minute before stepping away from the merchant stand and angling off towards an open cantina on the west side. Marek and the two burly men flanking him arrived at about the same time, and the two groups wordlessly found a table.
“Mr. Rook,” Marek said with a half nod as he sat down. “Glad you could make it.”
“I told you I’d be here,” Rook replied coolly. “I just hope you have something worth my time.”
Van loomed just off to his left, crossing his burly arms over his chest and glaring down the opposing bodyguards. Rynne slid next to Rook’s right shoulder and not-so-subtly fingered the crossbow hanging on her hip.
Marek didn’t even flinch. “Oh, I do. Honestly, I’m more worried about you having the drakes to pay for it.”
Rook cocked an eyebrow despite himself. Confidence, feigned or otherwise, wasn’t typically the hallmark of a petty scavenger like Marek. He drifted meagerly from job to job, selling whatever he could find to collectors or other merchants. Rook had done business with him a handful of times and had never seen anything worth more than a hundred drakes. But this time…
Everything about Marek seemed different today. His posture, his glimmering eyes, his cocky grin…he looked exactly like a man who had struck it big and believed himself invulnerable. Of course, that painted him as even more of an amateur given the fact he didn’t have the resources to protect anything so important. Regardless, Rook had to admit his interest was piqued.
He grunted as derisively as he could manage. “Spit it out, Marek.”
The scavenger leaned back and smiled widely. “I take it an educated Ebaran businessman like you knows all about the legend of Septuria.”
“I hope that’s a joke,” Rook growled. “You’d only be about the thousandth kreel in Haven to try and peddle off ‘legitimate Septurian relics.’”
“It’s no joke. All these religious fanatics going on about restoring Septuria, and I found a real piece of it not ten miles outside the city.”
“So you are wasting my time,” Rook said, standing. “Don’t contact—”
“I’m telling you the truth,” Marek insisted, glancing nervously at the nearby tables to make sure no one was looking. “Just let me explain.”
Rook glared down at the man for a full thirty seconds before letting out an exaggerated sigh and dropping back into his chair. It was so much easier to fake annoyance when most of it was genuine. “You have one minute. Don’t waste it.”
Marek’s smile returned and he nodded. “I already told you Prince Kastrius paid us to start digging a few weeks ago. Given how much the Empress wants to distance herself from her son these days, it made enough sense to hire us instead of using his own people.”
“It keeps his hands clean whether you find something or not,” Rook reasoned.
“Right. I don’t know where he got the tip, but we could tell within hours that this wasn’t another futile gorm hunt. This was a real Septurian building—a mortuary, at that. It took a week to dig it open, but it was worth it. All the symbols you see the fanatics waving around these days? They were all there—this is the real deal.”
Rook casually folded his hands in front of him. Marek certainly believed what he was saying whether it was actually true or not. That was a step up from his normal routine, at least, but it was still important not to seem too interested. “Go on.”
“There’s more to the legend than just the city falling from the sky,” Marek said. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the story of the Kirshal.”
“A trite messiah fantasy concocted by bored priests,” Rook replied dismissively, a warning tingle working its way down his spine. He knew a lot more than that about the Kirshal, naturally, and he also knew how many charlatans had claimed to unearth her remains over the years. But something in Marek’s eyes…
“They say that before the Sundering, Edeh placed a fraction of her soul into one of her priestesses,” the man went on. “The idea was that this woman would survive Septuria’s destruction, and then one day she would awaken and bring about this great restoration. Some even claim she would have the power to free the gods from the Fane.”
It was a succinct but accurate summation of the ancient legend, and Rook’s warning tingle abruptly transformed into a full-blown chill. He would have expected a man like Marek to rely on outright lies or tack on some thick hyperbole, especially given how many over-the-top Kirshal myths were out there. The fact he was telling the truth was somehow even more disturbing.
“As I said, a fantasy for kreel who should know better,” Rook replied, though he could hear the rising tension in his own voice. “My patience has limits, Marek. Get to the point.”
“The point is,” Marek said, his lips twisting into a crooked smile, “I found her.”
“You found the Kirshal?” Rook asked skeptically. “How exactly do you identify the Messiah from a pile of bones?”
Marek shook his head. “Not bones. You don’t understand. I found—”
“Trouble,” Rynne warned in her best Vakari accent. “Over by the ramp about fifty yards.”
Rook tried to ignore the knot forming in his stomach and craned his neck to get a better look. There, coming down one of the ramps with a full detail of Faceless bodyguards, was Cadrien Naen, a prominent member of the Assembly of the Six Gods. It wasn’t unusual for politicians to visit the bazaar, of course, and patrols of Faceless were a common sight anywhere in the city. But then, that wasn’t what she was worried about.
“Naen always puts on a show whenever he goes anywhere,” Marek said. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried about him,” Rook murmured.
“There by the silk vendor, you see?” Rynne asked.
“Yes.”
Marek, flustered, shook his head and tried to follow their gaze. “What are you talking about?”
“The pack of Balorites waiting for him,” Rook explained, hopping to his feet. The only weapons he had brought with him were a single shot Kimperan pistol concealed under his jacket and a slender dagger stuffed in his left boot. Hardly worth mentioning if this turned out like he suspected it was going to…
“It’s a Darenthi city—there are Balorites and Edehans everywhere,” M
arek pointed out. “I don’t see the probl—”
“They’re not just any Balorites,” Rook interrupted. “These fanatics have been hounding Naen for weeks, ever since he declared his support for the Empress’s peace treaty.”
“I think they’re magi,” Rynne added. “Shakissa’s mercy…”
Marek shook his head desperately. “Magi? How can you tell?”
“There they go,” Van warned, unsheathing his sword and terrifying the other cantina customers in the process. Rynne leapt over next to him, drawing her crossbow—
And then, in a single moment of fire and screams, it all went straight to the Void.
One of the Balorite cultists, tactically separated from his peers by a dozen yards, abruptly tilted his palm upwards, and a second later a brilliant ball of orange-white flame flashed in his hand. With a flick of his wrist the sphere streaked across the market and detonated on the ramp right in front of Assemblyman Naen. The explosion instantly reduced a pair of adjacent merchant stands to ash, but mercifully none of the nearby shoppers had been hit. They shrieked and sprinted off in all directions before the lingering flames could engulf them.
Naen was not so lucky. The assemblyman screamed in agony as he flailed about, desperately trying to extinguish the fire dancing across his clothing. Two of his Faceless bodyguards immediately charged forward, their swords and shields already drawn. Their jet black armor wasn’t even singed, but that shouldn’t have surprised anyone—any mage, even the most fanatical cultist, would understand that Faceless were impervious to magic.
Which meant that somewhere in the crowd, more Balorites were lying in wait.
“Zandrast’s blood!” Marek swore. He‘d already managed to stuff himself under the nearest table, and his “bodyguards” had done the same.
“Just stay down,” Rook told him, scanning the chaos-strewn bazaar for inspiration. The Faceless thoughtlessly shoved past civilians to get at the Balorite mage, while the Assemblyman, badly burned, screamed in agony as his two remaining guardians hauled him away.
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