by J. F. Lewis
Sections of the city cleared of the dead in arcs of safety spreading from the gates, the Root Tree, and Fort Sunder. Clean up would take a long time, but victory had become inevitable, and even if it had not, the Bone Finders, Rae’en, and Tsan’Zaur were en route from North Watch and would be regrouping at Scarsguard in the next few days as well.
Kreej led the remaining Zaur and Sri’Zaur in through the gates of Scarsguard, too, with Tyree and Alberta riding at the rear.
The fight raged on at Castleguard, but the war in the Guild Cities had sputtered and died, a swell of hope taking over as Vax’s followers worked to stop the fighting, with violence if necessary, but more often with a display of arms and an exchange of words. Rebuilding there would take years, but Vander imagined he would see a stronger, more vital trade center arise from the ashes and soot.
I wasn’t talking about the Vael at Scarsguard, Vander thought. He turned his gaze to the Twin Trees, his grin fading to a thin, grim line.
I am aware, Kholster said. Nevertheless . . . hold.
*
Rivvek swam in a sea of pain and fire. He had warned them, but he did not think he had explained. A seed of Uled. One remained.
One what? he thought, as his sense of the present fell away, replaced by fever dreams of the past. So hot. Lambent?
Semi-solid at the core of the Never Dark where all other matter became energy, the dragon had burned in eternal incandescence, luminous bones thrilled with white-blue forks of lighting. The dragon’s scales were translucent teardrops of azure lined in gold and silver. Each eye roared with the gold-red fury of a star. Lambent’s presence assaulted the physical, empowering the nonphysical, the source of all light, the heart of the Never Dark.
Awe had been the only word Rivvek had to describe what he felt in the face of such a creature. It was insufficient. Just as the definition of agony did not contain, could not come close to encompassing, Rivvek’s pain as the dragon’s existence burned him.
This pain, the now-pain, was close. Did that mean he was still fighting Lambent, and had only dreamed of victory? Were they still searching for the final Aern, the last of the Lost Command?
I found him, Rivvek thought. I brought them back. All of them. Didn’t I?
Was this some function of the Never Dark? The Bright at the center, the material, could only exist as a transient state. Could that be tricking his mind? Turning dreams and plans into false realities?
He could see them in his mind, clouds of majestic beings, no longer Ghaiattri, but adults, full-grown Ghaia, purged of their youthful evil along with their horned and clawed bodies, beings of radiance and alien benevolence. They swooped and sang sweet melodies to the luminous dragon who lay sleeping at the center of the Bright . . . not quite physical, but neither wholly ethereal.
What had Kyland told him?
Is the dragon the center of the light, or does it emanate from a flaw at its core? He had wondered, his thoughts blending with General Kyland’s, in a way he felt must be similar to the way one Aern could communicate with an Overwatch.
Perhaps, Kyland had answered, but it matters little. Our quarry is there.
Gesturing with a translucent finger of azure chased with gold, General Kyland pointed through shining halcyon mountains, over an argentate sea and fields of shimmering vermillion, to a dim shadow in the shape of an Aern, with the dragon itself curled around it.
The dragon took the Aern hostage? Rivvek had asked. At the edge of things, Rivvek’s physical pain ebbed, his skin glowing. Every part of him yearned to let go of the physical and fly in ebullient freedom. A beautiful harmony rose within, echoing what it discerned without.
No. General Kyland swatted the back of Rivvek’s hand, sending visible sparks of pain across the skin. And don’t let yourself get too enthralled with that sensation, highness. If you let yourself turn into one of those Ghaia, you’ll never leave the Bright.
Is such a thing possible? He could think of worse things than being all wings and light.
You wield their fire. General Kyland thumped Rivvek’s scars, which shone the color of Ghaiattri flame, trails of the purple light leading to pendulous knot that hung like a bead of elemantic flame at the sight of each wound Rivvek had received from the Ghaiattri all those years ago. I’ve never seen an elf do that. When I stay lightside too much, I feel as if I am spreading out, being absorbed into the surrounding scatter.
With that in mind, Kyland continued, we’d best be about it.
Wait. Rivvek tapped the Ghaiattri hide armor the general wore. It kept its solidity even in the Bright. He wanted to ask questions about that, too, but there was too much to know, to learn, to ask, and they had a mission. Maybe when or if they ever made it home, there would be time for all of those questions. You said the Aern is not a hostage. Then why is he still here?
He wants to stay, General Kyland had answered, but Kholster made me promise to bring them all back if I could. I know in my heart I can drag Astert back no matter how he feels on the subject. I am an elf of my word, highness. Maybe your own oath allows more flexibility, but mine is clear. Once I get him home, he can turn right around and come back, if his kholster allows it, but . . .
Rivvek recalled his own promise, and it had allowed for no such ambiguity either. Bring back the Lost Command or die. If he had only been required to sacrifice himself, Rivvek liked to think he would have considered it.
If Kholster had still been First, he might have decided otherwise, but kholster Rae’en had struck down an old elf who had offered no resistance, who was no threat. When faced with Grivvek, she could have spared him, but she had murdered Rivvek’s father, when no oath required it. Rivvek understood the act, even as he detested it. It spoke to him of an Aern who would not hesitate to kill every last one of the elves who had followed him into the Never Dark over some fabricated technicality. The capacity was in her to be magnanimous as well, to show mercy, he had seen that, but the emotional algebra was too complex to count on clemency.
One Aern’s (perhaps temporary) grief against the lives of his elves? Easy math.
Very well, Rivvek said. How do we get him out of there?
We kill the dragon. General Kyland had grinned, revealing bone-steel teeth, a gift from Kholster from a time when it was the greatest honor an Aern could bestow upon a favored elf, a true friend.
One dragon. One Aern.
Still, if there were another way . . .
“Rivvek.” A soft voice echoed at the edge of his attention, and the dreamed memory’s hold weakened as he recalled the battle with Lambent, the dragon’s rage, hurt, and confusion.
Kyland dragging Astert away.
Rivvek standing alone against the dragon and burning. Burning the dragon, himself, everything around him. Beings of light-blue and green flew at him, only to fuel his Ghaiattric flame.
“I have become the Bright,” the dragon had spoken at the last, beaten, dying. “Destroy me and the Never Dark may not recover. Would you doom an entire realm to save your outcasts?”
One world. One dragon. One Aern.
All of the calculations, the algebra of his ethics, said the price was too high. Grivvek would have turned back. Even Villok, first king of the united elemantic bloodline, might have turned back.
But I can win . . . Rivvek had thought. I can save them and go home.
Rivvek would have liked to imagine he’d have apologized to the dragon as he murdered it, but in truth, he’d said nothing. Killing was his answer; and if something inside of him broke, he told himself he could live without it.
*
“I gave my oath,” Rivvek groaned.
Rae’en stared at the injured elven king through the eyes of Ordamar. He looked . . . well, he looked like he needed a strip and dip, if she were to be honest with herself. He rolled in the grass, struggling against Kari and her assistants, raving as they applied salves and ointments Rae’en doubted would work.
Why don’t they put him out of his misery? she asked Bloodmane.
&nb
sp; He is a hero and a king, Bloodmane said. The elves have their ways. In the days before the Sundering, it is possible that one of the Artificers would have found a way to save him, much as they managed to adapt to the—
What is Kyland doing? Rae’en asked.
Ordamar shifted his gaze to the ancient Eldrennai veteran. Stripping off his claw-tipped gloves, Kyland was muttering something under his breath in a high, lilting tongue neither Rae’en nor any of the other Aern or warsuits spoke.
It’s one of the demon tongues, Ordamar explained. He speaks it on occasion, but I never had the time to . . .
Kyland continued stripping out of his armor, his scars drawing a note of admiration from Rae’en. His back, neck, and arms were a network of scars it would take a century to read. They told the story of a being who had nearly died a thousand times a thousand times, but refused to succumb to Torgrimm’s call.
“Roll him over,” Kyland ordered. Not looking to see whether he was being obeyed or not, Kyland began to strip out the lining of his armor.
Two ghastly-looking beetle-like objects fell out of the material. One, a dark matte black, was so small it was momentarily lost among the blades of grass until it scuttled to the top, perching as if making itself easy to find. The other, large as her thumb and a pale bone-steel white, fell flat on its back, serrated mandibles unmoving as it lay there.
Rae’en had never seen their like before, but Bloodmane had, filling in the gap in knowledge even as her Overwatches labeled them in blocky script.
A bone-knitter and a blood-sifter.
“No broken bones then,” Kyland muttered. “Blood sick already, though. Never good.”
He seized the small beetle, jabbed its pincers into his own thumb, then threw it at Rivvek’s throat, its mandibles a glistening red. Where it struck the elf’s charred flesh, the insectoid piece of artificery quickly burrowed beneath the surface, but Kyland was no longer watching. He found the flat wide item for which he sought, still clinging to his side, a tan-colored thing resembling nothing so much as a squashed centipede of leech-like dimensions.
“Wish I had more of these things.” Prizing it free of a raw wound where the flesh had been torn away in clawed strips, Kyland dropped it on the king’s chest.
Flesh-weaver, Glayne’s text labeled it.
“Best I have to offer,” Kyland growled. “Let me check with the troops.” He lifted off the grassy floor with a burst of Aeromancy, faltered and lost altitude, then regained control and darted out of the room and to the troops.
A map of the area unfolded for Rae’en, showing the layout of the Twin Trees, the nearby location of the troops, both elf and Aern.
“Can he live through that?” Rae’en asked. “Even with those artifacts?”
It is unlikely, Bloodmane told her, but King Rivvek, as you may have noticed, is quite tenacious.
*
Malli lay in the healing loam, drifting in and out of sleep. At times she did not remember what she was there for and tried to sit up, to brush the soil from her chest, before the pain, deep and sharp, woke at her movement. She got visitors, of course; she’d broken her core saving the prince, had helped the others get him out of Tranduvallu, which made her quite popular, a genuine hero.
Today, whatever day it was, she opened her eyes expecting to see the priestess applying more blue flower or changing the moss, even uncovering her to let redirected sun fall on her bark. Her head petals had been shed, ready for winter or because of the blue flower, she did not know.
Goumi was not there. In her place stood a thing in the shape of a person. Hair and head petals mixed with vines to cover her scalp. Her face was beautiful, but not a mortal beauty. One arm was fur-covered, the other bedecked with tiny yellow-and white-flowers and festooned with fruit-bearing vines from which hung ripe and succulent fruit and rotted matter in equal measure.
The skins of many animals flowed together to make her dress, and though this version of her was uncommon, Malli recognized Gromma, the goddess of growth and decay.
“Goddess,” Malli croaked, her air bladder still weak as much from the treatment as from the fungal infection that had brought her closer to Torgrimm’s door than to Gromma’s. “I—”
Silencing her with a sharp look from two lupine eyes and a dismissive flick of one claw-tipped and thorn-covered hand, Gromma snorted.
“The twins were precious to me.” The goddess’s voice hurt Malli’s ears, more like the howling of wolves or groaning of storm-tossed trees than a real voice.
“Were?”
“One hale and hearty, thriving, the other sick with rot.” Gromma looked away, her movement carrying with it the smell of roses and death, of honey and heartbreak.
“And now?” Why was the goddess speaking to her? She kept thinking it might be some new ailment, some poison of the sap or root, but Gromma felt too real to be a hallucination.
“He has ruined my sacred Root Trees.” Gromma’s rage shook the earth, her size expanding then contracting.
“Who?” Malli asked.
“Uled.” The breath carrying his name became a foul burst of corpse scent and fresh animal spoor.
“How?”
“No!” Gromma howled. “Wrong question!”
“What . . .” Malli waited, trying to moisten her lips with a tongue that was too dry and to give Gromma time to interrupt her if she was hunting after the wrong spoor again. The goddess eyed her expectantly. “ . . . do you want me to do?”
“Become my champion.” Gromma doubled in size, talon-like fingers digging into the dirt and lifting Malli out whole, her core ablaze with pain at the movement. “You will be well again. Rot will always be a part of you, but under your command. Uled seeks to destroy my twin trees. The one who can destroy him lies dying, with a foolish elf using inadequate tools to try and save him.”
“But what about Kholburran?” The sentiment as much as the words themselves surprised Malli. She loved her little Snapdragon, but she had not understood how much until she spoke his name in the clutches of the Goddess of Rot and Decay.
“Who?” Gromma’s voice was the hiss of steam and the crack of thunder. “The new Root Tree? I have no truck with Kari’s sproutlings. He is more Xalistan’s than mine, like his sister.”
“He asked me to be his Root Wife,” Malli said. “I thought—”
Had Gromma referred to Kholburran as a Root Tree?
“What does the little prince need with two Root Wives?” Gromma chuckled. “Surely Arri is sufficient. Xalistan is well-pleased with the pairing as it stands.”
“Arri?” Malli’s sap ran cold. “Are you saying that Kholburran Took Root and that he and Arri—?”
“None of that concerns me!” Gromma’s voice rang so loud it banished all other senses except for pain. “Ask the happy couple yourself if you live to visit the Aern’s new ruling perch. Though, I will admit, his is a nimble mind, quickly finding the wrongs in the land, seeking to return balance to his dominion. As such, I bear him no ill will and, perhaps, a grudging respect. Only the passage of seasons will reveal whether that sentiment will grow or wither.”
He did not even say good-bye. Anger, slow to kindle but steadily growing, swelled Malli’s chest.
“What would you have me do?” Malli asked again, eyes narrowed.
Gromma smiled. With a loud crack, Goumi, the priestess who had looked after Malli since her arrival, screamed, dropping to the ground as the outstretched hand of the goddess came to rest upon her torso. Dark vapor escaped from knots and pores in the goddess’s hand and forearm, flowing over the prone form of Goumi, silencing her forever.
Malli’s own pain vanished, a shifting of wood escaping her torso and sharp bite of citrus in the air around her preceding the return of strength to her limbs. Her orchid-petal hair flowed lush with new life, falling languidly about her shoulders. Her breasts swelled, her belly and biceps tightening.
Gromma released her, and rather than drop backward to the ground, Malli turned a backflip, landing lithely on
all fours. Strong and fast, this was more than she had possessed before. She felt like an irkanth, prowling the forest, felt she could kill with her bare hands.
Even her breath came more easily, but as she drew in deep bladderfuls of air, a scent assailed her nostrils, not noxious as such, but sweet and earthy, the odor of fungus and rot.
Malli’s head swam at the sensation of a darkness inside her, spores, she imagined, of some fell seed, the darker gift of Gromma. Her eyes fell on Goumi, and the brackish sap flowing from beneath her. Malli blinked, her eyes the red of a blood oak’s leaf with blackening swirls rotating lazily within.
“Does all your healing come at such a price?” Malli asked.
“You must heal the scarred elf, King Rivvek.” Gromma’s voice sounded sweet and terrible to Malli now, as if she heard if with her whole body, her whole self. “Let him do what must be done.”
“And after?” Malli took deep breaths as the goddess studied her. The scent was there, still, but she thought she could get used to it. Her eyes did not leave Goumi’s lifeless trunk, her bark cold and bare, until she felt a sudden absence, as if the world itself could breathe again.
Gromma was gone. In her place, the soil was damp and rich, worms churning the surface, grass already starting to grow. A skittering and cracking gave her a start, turning her back toward the fallen priestess. Goumi’s bark came apart like rotten wood, beetles erupting from the sagging corpse and flying in a swarm, once, twice around the temple of healing and then out into the forest.
Grinding her dental ridges, after a quick search, Malli found her Heartbow and spare leathers, donned them, and set out for the Garden of the Twins. If Kari and some foreign elf were trying to heal an elven king, Malli doubted they would have taken him anywhere else.
CHAPTER 38