by Ken Scholes
“We had a saying you might remember,” Petronus continued. “‘Good enough for the Order’s work.’”
“You’re right,” Neb said. He could see the logic, and he reached for it. But he suspected that even if he laid aside his need for the staff, Amylé was going to have to be faced at some point, and she would likely force the issue herself. Something had happened to her—something he feared perhaps Vlad had done to her—and she seemed more dangerous with both aspects of her psyche loose at the same time. He scanned the hills ahead of him. “Tell Winters I will meet her on the moon.”
He tucked the crescent away. He could see a fire now on the ridgeline not far from where he’d dropped the others. Neb turned himself toward it and increased his pace. They had worked hard to open this path to a new home. Many had laid down their lives—even among the mechoservitors—in faith spent on these dreams.
Their ability to be wrong proved those dreams were shaped by men and not by gods. And fulfilled by them as well.
And as he ran toward the light ahead, Nebios Whym recognized that the lack of magick and presence of fallibility in the dreams made it all more rather than less miraculous in his eyes. Because despite it all, they’d already come so far.
Marta
They ran through the day, the heat of Ahm’s Glory and the smell of her singed hair turning Marta’s stomach as they went. Isaak had run silently, loping at a pace they could sustain until their magicks burned out. Then he’d slowed further.
The few times she’d tried to engage him in conversation, he’d been elusive. And when they finally stopped to rest, he pulled away. That was when she first noticed the other pillars of smoke around them on the distant horizon, barely visible in the fading light and ashy haze.
Oh, Isaak. She tried to count them but kept starting over, and beside her, she heard Ire Li Tam stifle a gasp.
“What in the Nine Hells have you done, Father?” Marta heard anger resigned to heartache in the woman’s voice. She scanned the horizon with a hand shielding the light of the lowering sun.
Her father did this. Vlad Li Tam had somehow taken it from Isaak before sending him away, and then he’d used it. She’d never considered that a possibility; she’d assumed that the spell was only accessible by Isaak. That Androfrancine general had wanted it and Isaak had refused to give it to him, and she remembered that day. Isaak would’ve done violence if necessary to prevent Orius and his men from taking the spell. But Vlad had somehow forced it—with the staff they were looking for, no doubt. The one he’d used to bring the diseases that were already killing the city before this final act burned what was left to ash and bone.
And not just here but other cities as well.
Each of them a Windwir, she thought, with mothers not coming home from markets.
She looked toward Isaak. He stood motionless a stone’s throw away, staring at the grave of Ahm’s Glory, his eyes dimming and brightening as he processed. Marta remembered hating him at first once she realized he’d been the cause of Windwir’s fall. But then she came to recognize Isaak was as much a victim as every man, woman and child that died in Windwir. More so, because whatever dark magick had destroyed that city also made Isaak somehow much more than the other mechoservitors she’d met. It was as if the weight of such sorrow made the metal man more human.
But now what she saw made her afraid for this metal man she loved. “Where are we going?”
Ire sat stretched out upon a stone watching the skyline, and Marta sat down beside her. “I do not know,” the Blood Guard said. “We’re running north. And the city was buzzing with news that Lord Jakob and the Crimson Empress had been killed.” The woman swallowed, and Marta heard an emotion she couldn’t exactly place in her voice: grief mixed with anger, perhaps. “Also murdered by my father.”
She looked out at the smoke that choked the horizon, marking the pyres of distant cities. “Why would he do this?”
Ire’s eyes narrowed. “To end Y’Zir once and for all. To assure that it never happens again. They killed most of House Li Tam in their kin-healing of him—a redemptive process that involves cleansing by blood to restore another in that house. In this case, Lord Jakob. The blood magicks that made his birth possible required a later sacrifice in order to give him long enough life to reproduce. The Y’Zirite faith comes to fruition in the children brought about by the union of the Crimson Empress and the Child of Promise. The death of the children ends that faith and thousands of years of work. But if the death were faked, there would always be the possibility of the faithful finding out and another Resurgence coming to pass.” She looked at Marta, her green eyes softening. “It is a lot to understand, Marta, but all of this—this cycle of violence—has gone on for a long while. This version of the faith was born when Ahm Y’Zir was maimed and marooned in the Wastelands, spared by P’Andro Whym at the last moment and spirited away by Xhum Y’Zir’s desert thief, the first Rudolfo.”
So her father thinks to end it once and for all with the Seven Cacophonic deaths? Looking at the desolation that stretched out below them, she could see how it might. Or how it might create pockets of survivors even more filled with hatred and darkness, biding their time for an opportunity to keep that bloody wheel of vendetta turning.
“It has to stop at some point,” she said to herself. She didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Ire answered.
“I’ve spent my life on these machinations,” Ire said, “and I have to concur with you.”
Isaak had returned while they were talking and stood waiting for them. Marta climbed to her feet, and Ire did the same. “I have been in touch with the New Espiran Council Expeditionary Force, and our transportation is nearly here,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“The what?” Marta glanced to Ire, whose scarred face was washed with the same curiosity.
“The answer is more complicated than we have time for,” Isaak said. “But they are friends, and Nebios Whym is with them.” He pointed to a place low in the sky just east of them. “There is their ship.”
Marta strained her eyes and thought she saw the slightest ripple on the air, though it could’ve easily been heat. “I don’t see anything.”
“Their vessels use a technology similar to scout magicks to avoid detection,” the metal man said as he took a step toward where he’d pointed.
“But who are they?” She’d lost sight of the distortion and tried to find it again.
“They are friends,” a man’s voice said. “They are going to take us to Lady Tam and Lord Jakob.” Marta looked and saw that two men and a woman had materialized nearby. The man who spoke wore silver robes and was tall. His face was young, but his eyes were old and his hair was milk-white. He had a battered leather satchel that hung from his shoulder. He left the other two behind and moved to Isaak quickly. “Isaak … are you okay?”
“I am grieving and full of despair, Lord Whym.” The voice was colder and more formal than Marta was accustomed to.
She saw a look of understanding pass over the young man’s face, and she knew in that moment based on the compassion in his voice that he was truly a friend to Isaak. “I understand, Isaak,” Neb said.
So this, Marta thought, was the Marshers’ Homeseeker. She’d heard a bit about him from Isaak and Winters, but he was taller and older than she had imagined him. And his robes seemed to move about him as if they were made of liquid silver.
“I had the staff away from him, but I think Amylé has him now.” He grimaced. “Now they’re all gone.”
Isaak continued staring out over the ruins of Ahm’s Glory. “Nothing has gone as we intended it to,” he said. “We have failed the dream.”
Neb’s voice was surprisingly confident, and it went well with the compassion. “The dream itself is fallible,” he said. “Because it was fashioned by the same frail creatures who are trying to implement it now.” A note of anger rose. “And Tam has been an unexpected element.”
Ire spoke up. “But a planned one. My grandfather tucked several
of us away to be his knives.”
It was as if Neb had noticed her for the first time. “I know that voice,” he said. Marta watched several emotions cloud his face. “I didn’t think I’d be hearing it again.”
Ire’s voice was quiet and held regret. “I’m sorry you were hurt by my sisters.”
Marta looked from Neb to the woman. “You two know each other?”
Ire nodded. “I had been attacked by kin-wolves. Neb saved me.” She glanced away. “My sisters captured him.”
“They had help,” Neb added.
The Blood Guard ignored the bitter tone and met his eyes. “I am now sworn to Rudolfo and his son, Jakob,” Ire said. “These can bear witness to it.” She stepped closer to him, squinting. When she spoke there was wonder in her voice. “Your scars have healed.”
Scars? Marta also looked and saw nothing that could pass as a scar.
“They have,” he said. Then he turned away from Ire Li Tam and faced Isaak. “If she bears your grace then she shall bear mine. But what is it we are to do now, Isaak?”
Isaak shook his head. “I am compelled to see Lord Jakob and Lady Tam safely to the Named Lands.”
“With Amylé loose and Tam alive and them in possession of the staff,” Neb said, “it isn’t safe in the Named Lands.” He looked to Ire. “And wasn’t Lord Jakob given blood magicks in his infancy?”
She nodded slowly. “He was.”
“Then the Named Lands aren’t ever going to be safe for Lord Jakob,” Neb said, his tone and face sober.
Marta found it all hard to keep up with. Before Isaak’s new programming had compelled him to seek out Endicott, Ire had heard talk on the street of Tam murdering Lord Jakob along with the Crimson Empress.
“The Androfrancine pathogen is a lesser concern at this moment,” Isaak said, though Marta had no idea what he was talking about. “The staff and ring must be secured.”
“I agree,” Neb said.
But as they said it, Marta wondered how they hoped to get either. They’d tried once and failed. She wanted to ask but knew better.
“And until then,” one of the others spoke up, “it isn’t safe anywhere in Y’Zir or the Named Lands … for any of us. But it is safe in New Espira, and we should leave while we can.”
Marta looked at her; the woman was maybe her mother’s age and dressed in torn clothing that looked in keeping with any Y’Zirite commoner. But her scars were smudged—painted on, even—and her face was covered in soot. She spoke Landlish with a heavy accent that was gentler than Ire Li Tam’s and the other Y’Zirites’.
“This,” Neb said, “is Captain Vanya of the New Espiran Council Expeditionary Force. And her ship is here to carry us to Endicott.”
Marta saw a gangplank now materialize and uniformed men and women waiting with hands to pull them up inside. Marta and Ire were hustled off through a cargo bay and into narrow corridors. The New Espirans moved them along quickly, and she looked over her shoulder to make sure Isaak was with them. Once she saw he was aboard, she relaxed and let herself be led. After turning several corners, they arrived in a small room with two cots and a small table and chairs. Marta went to the porthole in the wall but was disappointed to see that it was closed and that there was no access to the shutter that would open it.
She’d swum beneath the sea and seen nothing underwater. Now she would fly and see nothing from the air. So instead she sat and waited for Isaak and thought about what Neb had said. The dream was fallible because the hands that fashioned it were fallible.
Marta still thought every day about the Final Dream and could see little that was fallible in it, but she knew it was just the slightest sliver of the larger dreams that had brought them here and had brought them together.
Still, when the others spoke about the Final Dream, it was the tree and Winters’s voice booming out that they all remembered. And when Marta thought about the dream she could barely remember the tree and couldn’t tell you at all what Winters had said.
No, she thought, because that’s not my dream. Her dream was Isaak, standing beside Winters on that plain, hands outstretched to heaven, light shining from his silver body. He is the only dream I know, she thought.
And now, wherever Isaak was, his head was bowed and his hands no doubt hung limp at his side as his thoughts dwelt in darkness.
And that, too, Marta realized, with its craters and winds full of ash and heat, is my dream, perfect and fallible all at once.
Chapter
21
Jin Li Tam
They parked the wagon in a large flat space at the end of the road, and Jin Li Tam marveled at the vast gray-and-white tree that stretched up to lose itself in hazy light. The massive roots rose up from the field around it, snaking their way to the trunk. Ponds and brooks of silver punctuated the landscape, and the top of the closest root had been planed flat and railings had been installed.
As she lifted Jakob down she felt fingers tickling the inside of her skull. Yes.
It was a sleepy voice, an old voice, and Jin felt the weight of longing in that single word.
Bring the children to me.
Jin felt a hand on her shoulder and looked over to see Administrator Gras’s warm smile. “It is a lot to take in,” she said. “And she’s been asleep most of the four thousand years we’ve tended her. But I can assure you it’s perfectly safe.”
As if to demonstrate, the woman stepped onto the path and set out for the tree. Jin Li Tam lifted Jakob into her arms, and he resisted but she didn’t give in. Instead, she hurried her steps until she was on the root and just behind the administrator. Chandra and Amara followed after, and Jin noted that the soldiers remained behind with the wagon.
As they drew closer, Jin saw that the bark was like nothing she’d seen before. Once it had been white, and now it was more ash-colored, with brighter and darker patches.
“Our scholars’ best guess,” the administrator said, “is that she’s already exceeded her lifespan. And that is despite humanity’s best efforts to destroy her.” She stretched out a hand and placed it upon the surface, her raised eyebrows encouraging them to do the same.
Jin touched the warm skin and drew back her hand when she felt the pulse. “What is she?”
“She is the Grandmother Tree. Part of the Firstfall of Lasthome.”
Jin blinked. “I don’t understand.” Jakob reached out his own hand, touched the tree, and giggled.
It means I am the oldest surviving member of the People who came here long, long ago to settle this world. Now come closer, Great Mother.
Jin continued skirting the massive tree trunk until she reached an irregularity in the bark.
It was, she realized with a twist in her stomach, an ear. Misshapen and the color of old human flesh. Nearby, a single nostril flared and a blue bloodshot eye blinked open. Below the nostril and beside the eye, a mouth worked its way open. “That is much better. Come where I can see you.”
Now Jakob was clapping in his delight and Amara joined in. Jin shifted him in her arms so that he could see better.
“Face,” he said, pointing.
The Grandmother Tree’s chuckle filled her mind even as she heard it with her ears. Yes. “Yes.”
Gras brought her face close to the eye. “How are you feeling, Grandmother?”
“Oh,” she said. “I ache.” Lean on me, Children.
Even as she said it, the ground shook again, and Jin leaned in, one hand against the tree and the other holding Jakob close. She felt the skin grow cold as the color darkened even as the light above dimmed. And she heard the old tree groan.
The shaking passed and the tree shuddered. Then the light returned to normal. But the bark was darker and more mottled than it had been before.
Father, what have you done? She glanced to the administrator. “What is it doing to her?”
It is killing me. The lips twisted into a grimace that might’ve been a smile, and Jin realized there were no teeth in the mouth. “But I was already dying,” the Gra
ndmother Tree said. “This is just hastening that day.” The eye moved, glancing from Jakob to Amara. But I am grateful to meet you two especially. Her voice was gentle. “I can see my People returning in your eyes.”
The children were still and quiet, discombobulated by the voice both in their heads and in their ears. Jakob looked at Jin with a look of wonder on his face. “Tree talk,” he said.
Amara’s face was sad. “Tree sick,” she said, adding to Jakob’s assessment.
Yes and yes.
Administrator Gras’s voice was low as she spoke to Jin. “We didn’t think she would survive Xhum Y’Zir’s Death Choirs when they created your Churning Wastes. It was weeks of shaking and twilight. But somehow, she held on. She sleeps a lot—for hundreds of years at a time. She was old and dying when Frederico and Amal Y’Zir brought our forebears here in the great Under-Exodus at the end of the Wizard Wars. But she is producing very little new sap these days, and when the reserves are used, it will be gone. That part of Lasthome will disappear forever.”
Jin’s mind boggled at all of it. “The sap?”
She pointed to a silver pool. “The blood of the earth. It comes from here. From the Grandmother Tree planted at the heart of the world.” The woman waved her hand, taking in the forest around them and the soft gentle upward slope of their distant horizons. “And this crèche—it exists for her, and once she is dead, its light will finally fade.”
It is coming sooner now, Children.
Something in the tree’s tone made Administrator Gras’s eyebrows furrow. “We should probably let you rest, Grandmother.”
“No,” the tired voice whispered. “I rest plenty. Tomorrow’s people are here, and I must bless them.” Bring them here. As the word here settled into Jin’s mind she saw a section of the tree not far from where they stood now. She moved in that direction, Chandra behind her, as two slender bone-like branches unfolded from the bark.