by EF Joyce
The Queen of Dreams slammed her fists against the broken glass. I am Stellan's daughter. I am him, and he is the Sphere. I am the Sphere and I want to die. I want to be destroyed.
The glass cracked and the Sphere caved in, exploding outward in a whirlwind of violet power. Instead of dispersing and vanishing as Elixa had intended, that magic, finally freed from the Sphere, returned to its original source, bringing with it the stolen power of thirteen queens.
Chapter 43
The boots of five-thousand men pounded the hard, frozen ground of Yeraz's plains. They paused just outside the valley to make camp, the points of hundreds of tents rising up out of the morning fog. Alaric Eide dismounted his pure white war steed, his white robes and nearly white hair flowing out behind him in the cutting morning breeze. The frost bitten grass crunched under his booted feet as he climbed one of the valley's hills, and then there it was: Yeraz. The houses spread out before him like a quilt, vanishing into tiny specks at the capitol's heart. A lone road stretched from the city center to a cliff top opposite him, and there perched the palace of Yeraz.
Not nearly as grand as he'd imagined, being the head of the largest empire in the world. Maybe four stories, only one defensive wall, no moat or bridge. The building was small, cold and dark. Half the size of his own palace and without any of the vitality. He didn't care for the cold north, but if Elixa was here...and she was. He could sense the presence of her mind in that palace on the cliff. How beautiful and fierce she'd been in dreams. Surely her true self would be even lovelier. Would she fight him? Alaric hoped she wouldn't. He'd rather she surrender to him, agreeing to rule by his side.
Alaric walked the main path, his siblings at his side and his soldiers at his back. He nearly laughed when he caught sight of Anaka, by herself on the other side like a lone crusader. Somehow, she had survived the immortal's wrath and escaped the palace, alone with no supplies, no gold, no purse. He admired her, honestly. Her tenacity was unparalleled, her bravery and recklessness. And she was right, he did owe her everything. Without Stellan's name, he never would have gotten this far so fast, with so little loss of Dalgan life.
So he let her go, pointing her toward his soldiers' camp around the edges of the valley, enveloping her in his protection from Elixa's magic. Just as he moved through the gates, the wind changed direction, the sky turned black and the presence of Elixa's mind magnified itself tenfold. The city below cracked and shifted, a ghostly wind howling through the air. He reached for the queen's mind and it burned him, rejecting his attempts at control. Somehow, she wielded more power than even he could touch.
Still, he probed further, into her thoughts and intentions. Laid out before him, the truth came to light. Elixa had every right to vengeance, and Alaric could only watch helplessly as she carried it out, decimating her empire but leaving his army standing, untouched. The Ilahi had used the Sphere to control his daughters, to harness and compound their magic into an ultimate weapon that only he held the key to. He had killed her. He had killed them all.
Alaric would never be with Elixa now, for she'd only ever been a dream. Her mind touched his one last time and asked him for revenge.
Granted, my love. Granted.
Chapter 44
Stellan gasped as the flood of magic assaulted him, pouring into him with astounding force. Just as quickly, it ended. He stood alone in the silent mausoleum of dead queens; the Sphere nothing more than shards of broken glass. He'd created the Sphere indestructible so that his powerless immortality would be everlasting. His skin prickled with magic, the hole he'd felt inside him since bonding with the Sphere filled to breaking. All if his power had returned, bringing with it the trapped magic of his thirteen dead daughters.
Stellan Tristenza was thirteen times more powerful than he'd ever been in life. Now he truly was a god. Now no one could dare to stand against him. After 3,247 long years, the world finally belonged to him. Elixa had destroyed Yeraz, so what? With this much magic, he could recreate it in a day.
"You did this. You helped her," he said to The Nameless, waiting silently in the shadows. He could feel her presence, her magic, pulsing in the darkness. "Thank you for giving me back my power." That I will use to end you.
"I made you mortal once more," she said, stepping into the room. He'd never gotten over how beautiful she was, even after looking at his own face, a male copy of hers, for three-thousand-years. Yes, he supposed he was mortal once more. But with this much magic, no one would ever get close enough to kill him, not even her.
"Did you know this would happen?" You know everything. You're everywhere. You think you're always one step ahead but you will slip, and when you do I will be there, waiting.
"I knew there was a chance." She met his gaze with equally black eyes. "We weren't always enemies, Stellan."
"We are now. And always will be. I will hunt down every copy of you. I will burn all your bones so you can never return."
"That's not how my magic works." He slammed her against the stone wall, hands locked around her delicate throat. She could have escaped, but she didn't. He squeezed tighter; she gasped and smiled wickedly.
"The one who will kill you has just entered this world," she rasped.
"Who? Who will kill me? You know this for certain?" he pressed harder. No one would keep secrets from him. If she knew how he would die, she would tell him. If anyone knew how to force answers from an unwilling source, it was Stellan.
"Only I can save you.” Then she vanished, his furious hands choking only empty air.
"Stellan Tristenza," a man's voice said from the doorway. He felt the clamp of mind magic, struggling to hold him and his vast powers in check. Failing.
"Alaric Eide. I fear my daughter's hopes of you controlling me were in vain. I'm far stronger now."
"We know, Stellan Tristenza," the voices said, so many voices. The room filled with Alaric's siblings, the joined force of their magic pressing upon him like weights.
"But you cannot win against us all.”
Chapter 45
Drexel wiped the sweat from his brow and buckled into the seat behind Damien's, facing the plane's cargo area. Dozens of crates had been stacked inside, strapped down and labeled: grenades, rifles, handguns, ammunition. He wasn't stupid. No bombs, missals, or even automatic weapons were included in the cache. Whatever aid Hale had promised the empire, he wanted Arcadia to keep its edge. The rulers had granted the Sinmek Plains in exchange for the crates, and Hale fully intended to deliver.
The plane shuddered, the engines roaring to life. Hale sat in the pilot's chair, easing the jet onto the runway. He turned the plane toward the open sky door, a patch of perfect blue cut into the wall like a teloscreen. The engine screamed as they sped down the runway; Drexel closed his eyes, gripped his seat and took several deep breaths. They dropped into the clear sky, then rose up, high above the clouds. Damien was in the co-pilot's spot, though he had no clue what he was doing either. Hale was fully capable of handling the aircraft alone, wanting his most trusted men at his side over an experienced flier. Once the bumps had smoothed out, he unbuckled and looked out the window over Damien's shoulder.
The blue sky stretched endlessly onward, below them a blanket of heavy clouds.
"Pretty prepped, huh?" Damien asked, blue eyes flashing in excitement. The royal family had hardly been dead a week when Hale had "found" his long lost son, bringing him up to Arcadia. He wondered what the princess – the queen – thought of that, but supposed she was probably preoccupied.
Drexel couldn't explain why he cared, why he thought about her. He had only seen her a couple of times, and they'd barely spoken. Even though all the lies had been for a reason, the greater good, he couldn't help but feel bad for her. Married to the man who had planned the execution of her entire family without knowing, ordering her brother's death because of what Drexel had made her see, forced her to believe.
"We're getting close," Hale said. "I'm going to descend a bit to show you our new land. Our new home." The plane
shuddered as Hale guided it downward, through the clouds and out the other side. Land was spread plentifully below, not the dried and twisted waste or the hollow ruins of Arzu, but fresh, living land. Grass parted for rivers and streams, stretching on and on, as far as Drexel could see.
"Wow," he breathed.
"Everyone in the Unders will have a place there," Hale said, pride thick in his voice. He had done this, his scheming and plotting, a lifetime of lies and rebellion and murder all leading to this moment, the liberation of their people. Drexel's eyes were wide, drinking in the sight of their achievements. In that moment of absolute victory, he knew everything he'd done had been right. The blood of four royals had secured the future of thousands, of unending generations, once slaves but now free.
Hale circled around, a tiny city growing in size as they descended. The ground warped, a building collapsing, a crater yawning across the dark ground. Drexel blinked, wondering if he'd imagined that but when his eyes reopened, all the structures had crumbled, the earth heaving.
"What the hell?" Hale cursed, yanking on the controls, taking them upward again.
"What was that?" Damien asked. The commander responded with a frown, keeping the plane low enough to see the ground. They cruised further east, toward the Yerazi capitol. An army was camped outside the valley, their tents white specks below. The city had been utterly destroyed, rubble strewn where houses had stood only moments before. Only the palace remained, a black stain atop a green hill, the blurry dots of soldiers racing through the gates.
"We're too late," Damien said. "Dalga won. I can't believe it. They conquered Yeraz." Drexel wasn't as familiar with politics as the two of them, but Hale had informed him Yeraz was an empire several times the size of Dalga. Even though Arcadia had a long standing trade agreement with the southern kingdom, only Yeraz had the land they so desperately needed, so they'd thrown in with them, incorrectly it seemed.
"This is our chance," Hale said, turning them back toward the fields, aiming to touch ground just beyond the Dalgan camp.
"Our chance to do what? Yeraz is gone," Damien argued.
"Yes, and we're going to claim what's left." Hale had gone mad, Drexel was certain. They'd come minutes to achieving everything he'd spent his entire life working for, only to fail at the last second. Hale wouldn't accept that. He wouldn't stop playing until someone removed him from the game.
They landed beside the camp, soldiers racing to greet them. Hale unbuckled, flew out of his seat and began to rip open the wooden crates. He handed them each a rifle and two handguns, dumping boxes of bullets out onto the metal floor, loading the weapons as fast as he could manage.
"Dad, stop. This is insane!" Damien said, holding an empty weapon limply at his side.
"We take Yeraz. Here. Now. Before they can get on their feet, before they can stop us." Drexel had no choice but to comply, the pressure of Hale's influencing magic building in the back of his head. He loaded guns for himself and Damien, who despite his years of bravado had gone still and silent.
"Come on, man," he said, clapping his old leader on the shoulder, pressing a loaded weapon into his hands. He never would have guessed one day he'd be the one giving Damien pep talks. "This is it." He blinked, coming back to himself, his hand tightening around the gun.
"Ready?" Hale asked. They nodded. The side door popped open, pressure releasing with a hiss. They rushed outside, the air cool and moist, heavy clouds hanging above them. A group of Dalgan soldiers stood waiting with swords in hand. Hale said something in another language, and after a long pause one of them replied. Damien and Drexel kept their guns leveled at the enemy, waiting for direction. The Dalgans did the same, swords drawn and ready. As if they would do any good against bullets.
Finally, one of them issued an order and the Dalgans sheathed their swords. Drexel and Damien put their guns away and followed Hale through the camp. The Dalgan in charge led them all the way to the palace, through the utterly decimated streets of Yeraz's capitol. The collapsed buildings and crumbled streets reminded him of the Unders, of Arzu's ruins leering at him from every corner. Though he supposed the same magic had destroyed both places, only 600 years apart.
Unlike Arzu, victims wandered the broken city, bleeding and clutching crying children, dazed and dying, searching for escape, for safety. He had to turn his eyes away, focusing on the back of Hale's head. There was nothing he could do for them, not here and now. Perhaps if they really claimed Yeraz, Hale would help them. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew it as a lie. The newly minted King of Arcadia would do nothing that didn't serve his own interest. He owed service only to his people, not to the citizens of a broken empire.
The road leading to the palace remained intact, though lined with the broken remnants of several great marble statues. He wondered what they'd been before the magic had ruined this city, and swore one of them formed a set of giant legs, fragmenting into shards at the knee. They reached the palace doors, and though the building itself was untouched, the doors had been blown apart, burn marks edging the ceiling and floor. They were told to wait in the foyer, or at least that's what Drexel assumed since Hale stopped and the Dalgan went on ahead.
He returned several moments later, a tall man clad in white robes close behind. His clothes reminded Drexel of Adrian, Arcadia's fake sorcerer, only this man exuded power, magic practically sparking from his skin. Faifax had promised to teach him how to detect magic, but in this man he didn't need to search.
"Welcome, Commander Hale," he said in Arzun. "You have...interesting timing. I assume you came to deliver weapons, for use against my men."
"You'd assume correctly. Since I arrived sadly too late, perhaps we can deal with each other. All I want are the Sinmek Plains, as the former king and queen had promised. I would have begged aid from Dalga, but you have no land to spare."
"True," the man replied, his delicate eyebrows furrowing. "I'll make you a deal. I must return to my kingdom, but I have conquered Yeraz. There is no one to contest that the empire is now rightfully mine. To rule, or to give away. I propose a trade. Your true name for Yeraz. All fifty-two broken provinces." Hale's true name? What did that mean? And why would this mysterious man want it? The commander frowned, his jaw clenching.
"I've had a difficult day and I'm not a patient man," the robed mage said.
"You'll have full control over me," Hale argued.
"Yes, that is the point. But rest assured, I will use it sparingly, only when I need to." Full control? This man must have mind magic, like Hale's but stronger. So much stronger. Drexel could feel it rolling off of him in waves. What would Hale do? Was his own life too high a price to save his people?
"If I say no?"
"Then you leave. Return to your own lands, and never bother me again. Try to come back, and I will wage war on you." Damien stood silently at Hale's side, eyes locked onto the mage, his fingers creeping toward the gun in his belt. Don't do it, Damien, Drexel warned silently, but of course Damien could not hear him. He had no magic to push thoughts.
"Alright. I agree. My name is Faifax ZAN185774." The mage smiled, repeating Hale's name back in his lilting accent.
"Faifax ZAN185774, you are mine." Damien whipped the gun from his belt, aiming at the mage faster than Drexel could follow. Just as quickly Hale shoved him, the gun firing off at the ceiling, plaster crumbing down where the bullet had connected. Hale twisted Damien's arm behind his back, the latter gasping in pain. Drexel stood back, hand on his gun, waiting for orders. "You must learn better control over your men," the man chastised. "Kill him."
Without a whisper of hesitation, Hale took the gun from Damien's captured hand and shot him point blank between the eyes. The bang resounded through the hall, repeating, over and over. The weapon slipped from the commander's grasp, clattering onto the marble floor. He wailed, a horrible inhuman sound, catching Damien's body as he fell.
"My son!" he cried, burying his face in Damien's shirt. Drexel stared down at them, horrified. Blood and brains we
re splattered all over the white floor, on Hale's clothes, on Drexel's boots. Red flecks decorated the mage's robes, though with a flick of his staff the stains vanished.
"I said I would rarely take control of you, not that I would be kind when I did," he said, stepping past the sobbing commander and his dead son, staring glassy eyed at the ceiling. "Come, let us take our prize and be gone from this place."
The mage walked out, followed by seven others in the same white robes and light blonde hair. They prodded a prisoner between them, a pale man with black hair and a perfect face. He looked broken and defeated, eyes trained on the floor.
Drexel watched them go, gaze locked on the doorway long after they'd vanished down the palace road. Then he was alone, standing in the center of a shattered empire, the hollow sounds of Hale's racking sobs echoing through the lonely halls.
Anaka gave birth to her daughter in a Dalgan soldier's tent, two days after the world ended. Though all fifty-two provinces had been soured and scourged, Dalga remained whole, intact, and soon they would make a life there. She gazed at her daughter's face; porcelain white and her eyes black as night, slanted a little, just like Anaka's. She had a tuft of black hair, tiny pink lips, long, curling eyelashes. Anaka held her close, smelled her soft skin, kissed her tiny face. Perfection. She loved her even more than she ever dreamed she would. Nothing would ever come between them, Anaka would see to that.
What to name her? Not Calixte, or Stellan would know it and then Alaric would. Not any of the other names they'd argued over either. All of them were meaningless, not good enough for her perfect daughter. The baby cooed in her arms, staring up at her with black eyes. Anaka would name her after the one person in the world who had actually cared about her, who had never given up on her. Anaka would be the only one to remember him and the sacrifices he'd made for her. A worthy legacy.