by karlov, matt
What is this creature Azador, this thing we call a god? Whence did it come, and how came we upon it? How is it that none in all the world make mention of its name, save we ourselves? To most of these questions we must frankly admit our ignorance; yet some, I now believe, can be guessed at, and perhaps even answered.
The Valdori fell. If there is one matter on which all men now living agree, this is surely it. The Empire bestrode this continent like a colossus, its people working wonders unseen before or since. If the Kharjik historians are to be believed, the arm of the Valdori stretched beyond even Kal Arna to distant lands now forgotten to us. Yet they fell. How could that which stood so high be brought so low? How could a people possessed of such wisdom and beauty come to such disastrous ruin?
My questions burdened me, haunting my waking hours until I could no longer leave them be. I set out to discover the cause of the Empire’s fall, reading all I could find, devouring every tale, no matter how incredible. With the Council’s blessing I travelled to the mainland, journeying from one city to another, begging entry to archives and libraries and vaults. Slowly, grudgingly, the fragments I found resolved into the mosaic that follows. I offer the following history to all who choose to hear, inviting any who doubt me to follow in my steps and verify for themselves the truth of my words.
Of the origins of the Valdori, I could find only scraps. Even the site of their great city, Asi-Valdor, remains unclear. Some believe its ruins lie deep beneath the waters of Lake Viho, in the wide western plains. Others place it in the forests of Mellespen or among the peaks of the Kemenese, though the latter seems an unlikely site for so great a population. The northern city of Feoras claims its own foundations to be those of Asi-Valdor, as does Sanam in the south, and Cort on the far isle of Jervia. Some say that a city called Asi-Valdor never existed at all. Yet the empire must have begun somewhere; small at first, like a seed or a phoenix ember, or the pebble that starts the avalanche. Had the fire not come, had the pebble not fallen, how different might the world have been?
Somewhere, somehow, the pebble fell. The Valdori grew and became mighty, excelling in all to which they set their hand. Even now, more than two thousand years after their fall, they remain unsurpassed in every art known to man, from war to engineering to craftsmanship to song, and in sorcery above all. They raised spires to rival the mountaintops. They drew gold and silver and jewels from the earth, and wrought such beauty as to draw tears from the vilest soul. They learnt the secrets of binding light, and blood, and spirit itself. Ever deeper they quested, searching for the strands that make up all things, teasing them apart, until at last they broke through to somewhere else — and found something waiting for them.
I cannot say with certainty what happened. The accounts are too fragmented, and each writer too eager to offer his own interpretation. Was this place truly the Shallows, or merely some lesser realm; or even the Deeps? What manner of creatures did they find? Were they deceived, or driven back, or did they stretch out the hand of invitation? I do not know. All I can say is that when the Valdori sorcerers returned, two beings came with them.
Perhaps the Valdori worshipped them at first. When a people already possess dozens of gods, what difference make two more? Or perhaps the Empire found a way to bend these beings to their will. Whether by grace or subjugation, these two creatures from beyond the veil offered up their strength to the Valdori and the Valdori seized upon it, working wonders ever more spectacular, ever more sublime.
Yet over time the beings grew antagonistic and were separated. Differences emerged between their followers, hardening beneath the passage of years until at last they calcified. The Valdori awoke one day to find themselves no longer one people but two. Grieved and dismayed, they resolved to unite the two once more, and raised up leaders who swore to make it so.
The First Calamity struck in the one thousand and ninety-fourth year of the Empire. One side struck the other, and the other struck back, and by the time they were done the entire southern half of Kal Arna had fallen to ruin. The Valdori abandoned the south and retreated north, shaken and repentant. The Empire was diminished, but this state, they resolved, would be temporary. They would reunite and rebuild, and in so doing they would recover their former glory.
For seventy-three years, there was peace.
Then, somehow, it broke.
The Second Calamity struck in the Valdori year one thousand, one hundred and sixty-seven. Those cities that had survived the first cataclysm fell to the second. The Empire collapsed; its people dead or scattered, its wonders lost forever. The two beings, freed from whatever obligations had bound them to the Valdori yet still cut off from their home, were left to roam the world as they pleased.
What became of the first being, I do not know. But the second is well known to us.
I found the name in a dozen manuscripts, accompanied each time with a curse.
Ahazedorai. Worldbreaker.
Clade watched Sera take the final page and lay it face-down on the stack beside her. She sat with her head bowed, her hands perfectly still in her lap. Only a slight hitch in her breath betrayed her appearance of calm.
“This is Niele’s treatise, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yes.”
“It’s forbidden to read. And twice as forbidden to own.”
“Yes.”
She looked up, her eyes bright with tears. “Why have you shown me this?”
“You have a right to know what Azador is. What we are.” He took her hand. “Why do you think it would want to prevent you from knowing this?”
“Because it’s a lie!” She snatched her hand away and wiped angrily at her eyes. “How can anyone know what happened that long ago? Niele might have misunderstood a hundred different things. Or she might have relied on other accounts that were wrong. Or maybe she made the whole thing up. Gods know she had a big enough axe to grind.”
“You’re right,” Clade said. “I thought the same things at first.”
“And now?”
Now? He hesitated. “This treatise offers a gift, Sera, to any who will take it. Not truth. Who can say what is true any more, so long after the fact? Of itself, a single account proves nothing. But it offers the possibility of doubt. And now…” Now he knew Azador. He’d felt its lust, its rage, the darkness at its core. And he knew what it wanted: not to restore, but simply to conquer. “Now my doubts have been vindicated.”
Sera shook her head, incredulous. “You believe this, then?”
“The part about the Valdori? Maybe.” Spires to rival the mountaintops seemed a stretch; but then, who could say for sure? “The part about Azador being accursed? Yes.”
“But… but you’re Oculus! How can you say that and still do what you do?”
“The Oculus do not tolerate departures. You know that, Sera.”
“So, what then?” She waved her arms in a futile, absurd gesture. “What do you expect me to do? Posture and lie and cut out my heart until at last I turn into you?”
Clade’s mouth tightened. It’s the shock, that’s all. She needs time. “That depends,” he said. “If anything were possible — anything at all — what would you want to do?”
“Make it so this conversation never happened,” Sera said, her voice choking on the last word.
“But if it were true,” Clade said, as gently as he could. “What then?”
“I don’t know.” She wiped her eyes again. “I think I should go now.”
“Sera,” he said, as she stood unsteadily and turned away. “Wait.” But she was already gone, scurrying up the aisle and around the ark, then through the portal and out of sight.
A posturing liar with my heart cut out? That was unfair, Sera. But was it? His lies were hardly in question. As for his heart… No. If his heart were empty, he would not have done this.
She wouldn’t go to Estelle, he judged. Not yet. He’d need to speak with her again, though, and soon.
Foolishness. What was I thinking?
Movement at the port
al caught his eye. Clade looked up, hope leaping in his breast; but it was merely a priest come to clean the pews prior to the next service. Hells, how long have I been here? Longer than he’d intended. He stood, grabbing the treatise and stuffing it in his bag, and hurried out.
When he reached the street he paused, looking up at the Oculus building and the window of his suite. Beneath the window, in the false drawer in his desk, Bannard’s gold lay hidden. But it was too late to fetch it now.
Bannard would just have to take his word.
He turned north, joining the late afternoon traffic moving into the city; but although he moved as fast as the crowded street allowed, his thoughts lagged stubbornly behind. Azador is the enemy, Sera, not me. If you believe nothing else, please believe that.
I don’t want to fight you, too.
•
Clade stumbled to a halt in the shadow of the powder works, gasping to regain his breath. He’d run the final stretch, dodging oxcarts and handcarts and pairs of youths lugging oversized baskets. Mid-way across Bastion Bridge he had come upon a man of the city garrison and had slowed to a jog, not wishing to appear suspicious. The man had grinned, touching a mocking finger to his leather cap as Clade passed by with his hair flapping against his neck. Clade had felt a moment’s resentment, but the feeling was easily contained. Far better to seem ridiculous than be delayed. I’d wear motley and tie bells in my hair if it got me here on time.
The sun was gone from the west, and the first stars were beginning to emerge. Ahead on the jetty, a figure paced up and down, its form a black silhouette against the dusky river. Breathing hard, Clade peered into the gloom. Is it him? As he watched, the figure halted and shook its head; then abruptly it turned and began striding directly toward him.
Damn it. Clade straightened, taking a long pull of river-scented air and letting it out slowly. The figure stomped up the path, head down and shoulders hunched, seemingly oblivious to Clade’s presence in the wall’s deep shadow. Clade stood motionless, waiting until the figure was almost close enough to touch.
“Going somewhere?” he said, and the figure yelped.
“Dreamer’s bloody daughters!” Bannard glared, his arms about his head as though fending off an attack. “You’ve been waiting here all this time?”
“Just arrived,” Clade said. He placed a hand on Bannard’s shoulder and gestured toward the jetty. “Shall we?”
Bannard gave a grudging nod and allowed himself to be steered back toward the water. His arm was tense beneath Clade’s hand. Hardly surprising, I suppose. Any man about to betray his colleagues would be tense, especially one not accustomed to the practice.
They sat on the bench. The great wheels of the powder mill slapped the river in slow, monotonous rhythm. Bannard coughed and rolled his shoulder as though trying to shrug off Clade’s hand. Clade tightened his grip.
“So,” Clade said. “What do you have for me?”
“You first. Show me the gold.”
“It’s not here. You’ll get it if your information is good.” He tightened his grip further. “Talk.”
Bannard hissed. “All right, fine. Fine. You’re looking for an urn, right?” He took a deep, unsteady breath. “I’ve seen it.”
“You’ve seen the urn?” Hope lit up within him. He boxed it, tucked it away. “Describe it.”
“It’s about this high,” Bannard said, holding his hands a short distance apart. “It has a wide body which curves in to a narrow neck, then flares out again at the mouth. It’s made of something like pewter, but it seems undamaged by the passage of time.”
Yes. That’s it. “Go on.”
“There are a series of carved images around the body, and an inscription. The inscription reads, ‘Here lies the Emperor’s first legion. May its spirits rest undisturbed until the end of time.’”
The golems. Yes.
“The urn has a lid of the same substance. We managed to remove the lid, but the urn was empty —”
“What? What do you mean empty?”
“Just that.” Bannard moistened his lips. “But the lid had some symbols carved into it. Valdori numerals, indicating a location.” He fell silent, gaze fixed on the dark river.
“Well? What location?”
Bannard offered no response.
“Bannard,” Clade said. His grip on the man’s shoulder was like iron. “What location? Who has the urn now?”
The other man folded his arms. “That’s all for now,” he said. “I’ll give you the rest when I see my gold.”
“You’ll get your gold. I’ll see to it. Just tell me who has the urn now.”
“No. Gold first.”
Damn you! Clade released the man’s shoulder, reached for his purse. “Look, I don’t have your gold with me, but here’s what I have. Take as much as you —”
Cold steel kissed his throat. He froze, his gaze swivelling down. A knife. The bastard brought a knife.
Clade swallowed, and felt the knife slice into his skin. “I give you my word that I have your gold,” he said hoarsely. “Every last luri. We can go and get it now, if you like.”
Bannard spat. “You can shove your gold up the Dreamer’s bony arse.”
“What?”
“A favour, you said.” He gave a bitter chuckle. “That’s all. Just a favour. And I was stupid enough not to realise what that meant.”
There must be something I can do. Clade’s hand lay palm-down on the seat between them. If he moved it, Bannard would see. But maybe the bench… “A favour, yes,” Clade said, narrowing his thoughts to the timber beneath his hand. “In exchange for —”
“You turned me into a snake!” Bannard’s hand shook, and the knife bit deeper. “Three years a snake, and I didn’t even know.” His voice softened. “But a snake has fangs, Clade. And this one no longer belongs to you.”
There was no time for elegance. Grimacing, Clade pressed his half-formed binding against the long timber planks. The spell flared to life, then buckled, hopelessly compromised by its lack of structure. The wood beneath Bannard burst up as if struck from below, lifting him into the air on long, jagged fingers. He shrieked, losing his hold on the knife as he rose, then falling back to the bench with the crunch of timbers snapping beneath him. The weapon fell, slicing into the meat beneath Clade’s thumb and clattering to the jetty. Clade kicked it into the river with a curse, then twisted around and grabbed Bannard by the throat with his uninjured hand.
“I’m sorry,” Clade snarled. “I don’t think I heard that last part. Care to repeat it?”
Bannard whimpered and shook his head.
Clade leaned close. “Understand this. You are mine. My very own snake, until I say otherwise. Is that clear?”
Eyes clenched shut, Bannard nodded.
“Say it.”
“I’m… I’m your snake.”
“For how long?”
Despair filled Bannard’s voice. “Until you say.”
“That’s right.” Clade released his grip, glanced at his other hand. Blood oozed from the throbbing cut beneath his thumb. He pressed the wound against his leg, wincing at the pain.
Bannard slumped against the bench, head hanging limp against his chest. He drew a long, shuddering breath.
Clade frowned. No, damn it. I need you functional, not like this. He grabbed the other man’s chin and lifted his head. “Bannard. Look at me. Do what I ask and you can go. Understand? I’ll give you your gold and we’ll go our separate ways. All debts settled.”
Something stirred in the man’s eyes. “When I’ve done…”
“All I want is information. You won’t have to hurt anyone. Just information. All right?”
A listless nod. “All right.”
Clade sat back. The man had screwed himself up for one shot, and now it was gone. He sat in the wreckage of the bench like a stuffed doll. I need to focus his mind. Get him thinking about what will happen if he obeys — and what will happen if he doesn’t.
“I helped your family, Bannard,”
Clade said. “Got them out of trouble with those moneylenders. Remember?” He paused. “I can find them again if I have to.”
Bannard’s head snapped up. “You wouldn’t. Please, no, leave them out of it.”
“I will. So long as you do as I ask. And when we’re done, you’ll have the gold.”
Doubt filled his eyes. “No. You’ll just kill me.”
“No, I won’t.” Clade exhaled. “You don’t believe me? I’ll show you.”
“You said you didn’t have it.”
“I’ll take you to where it is.” He stood and held out his hand. The man was too unstable now for them to talk out here anyway. One shout and who knew what attention he might draw. “Come with me.”
Bannard sat motionless for a long moment, then, slowly, he reached up and took Clade’s outstretched hand. Clade braced, readying himself in case Bannard tried pulling him into the water, but the other man simply stood.
Nodding in approval, Clade gestured toward the riverbank. “That’s it,” he said as Bannard began shuffling down the jetty. “Let’s find your gold. And once we’re there, you can tell me everything you know about the urn.”
Chapter 17
The noses of the master perfumers of Kharjus surpass those of all other men, capable as they are of discerning more than fifty distinct scents in a single breath. During the reign of Mazkotto II the Ascetic, in the time of the Kharjik Persecution, the master perfumers assigned words and letters to scents, and so devised a means of communicating one with another unbeknown to the Emperor’s servants — indeed, if you will forgive my saying so, under their very noses.
The aroma denoting the house of Mazkotto II can be smelled to this day, in every closet and privy in the land — though it is said that only a master perfumer can tell whether a particular bouquet refers to the Ascetic Emperor himself, his virgin wife, or one or another of the Emperor’s illustrious ancestors. Whether or not this last is true, I cannot say. But it is an undeniable fact that in all the years since the Persecution, no Kharjik Emperor has ever again taken up the name of Mazkotto.