A flood of questions, from a thousand sources, had crashed upon her not moments from the message’s end. She’d been forced to mask her signal entirely. The most pervasive query had been in the form of a single word: How? Few, of course, knew of the tunnels leading to the lands beyond this continent.
Vashodia, however, did not plan on using them.
“Ready, mother?” she said.
Angla cut a sharp glance her way, saying nothing. She did not need to. Vashodia could tell exactly what she was thinking. You can feel as well as I that our harmonization is still in progress, so hold your tongue and let me finish in peace, you impatient little tart.
Vashodia smiled to herself. Her life had been dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge. In all her research, she’d found the study of people to be the most vital. Dissections had revealed to her the pathways within the mind, and the little grey cells that controlled thought and memory, emotion and motivation, impulse and instinct. Fascinating. As such, she could, through careful analysis, narrow down the likely choices a person would make. It was as close to seeing the future as any would get.
She sighed, looking out over the crowd that had gathered. The tar pit in the center of the Ropes had been dismantled—one of Yandumar’s first decrees—and Vashodia sat cross-legged on the sand that now covered the arena floor. Three hundred of her kin stood nearby—females freed by her brother. The seats were nearly filled. Some had come out of curiosity. Others out of fear. Most, however, had come simply to witness.
The frequencies synced together at last. The crowd felt it, taking in a communal breath as the disparate vibrations became one. Vashodia energized. The five spheres in a circle around her popped open, and thousands of darkwisps sprang into the sky.
The symbiotic organisms, which clung to the identity strands in her blood, shifted into action, drawing upon the energy that bound the universe together. They touched their disembodied brethren, pulling more and more.
Vashodia directed them with her will. The darkwisps formed a funnel, its wide mouth facing down. On top, this conduit broke into smaller channels pointing out in all directions.
“Now, mother,” she said. “All I need from you is raw power. Do not bother forming it. Just send everything through the opening, and I will do the rest.”
“Are you sure we can make this work?” Angla asked.
Vashodia nodded.
Her mother frowned, softly adding, “Are you sure we should?”
“It has been long enough. This veiled empire can hide no more.”
With a sigh, Angla pushed her ocean of gathered energy through the funnel.
Power poured through the large conduit and into the tight channels, shooting out their ends like water from a fountain. The sky came alive at the intrusion. Vashodia hummed to herself as the dark energy strands traversed hundreds of leagues to their destinations.
Over the last few decades, she had placed her machines around the edges of the continent. Five hundred of them. Within each were housed thousands of darkwisps, the gathering of which had taken centuries. She had programmed them all with a single imperative. Now, as the power formed by Angla and directed by herself came crashing home . . . they awoke.
The lingering symbionts of the last two millennia pulsed as one. Their purpose was unified. Up and out, they spent themselves against the accident of ages past.
The sundered world shook to its very core.
The Shroud . . . shattered.
Like pressing a boot upon a saturated sponge, the darkwisps squeezed outward in all directions, finally free from their artificial constraints. The pressure had built up to its breaking point—much longer, and they would have begun devouring towns, and soon, cities. Then . . . everything. And even her own efforts to stymie them would prove insufficient.
Fly away my pets.
But now they were free to float across the oceans and seek out their cousins of the light. Free to find and annihilate each other. As they were meant to. From the information she had recovered from Ruul, their behavior of seeking living flesh was completely aberrant. The original makers had not designed such functionality.
Then again, a little degeneration is to be expected after fifteen thousand years.
Her mother, picking herself up off the ground, released her power, breaking the sync. “All the world will have felt that,” she said with awe.
“This world, yes,” said Vashodia. “And so much more.”
Angla gazed at her with bewilderment. “What?”
Vashodia giggled.
GILSHAMED POURED HIS will into the construct, sweating with effort. He had not slept in a week, and only ate when his body screamed at him for sustenance. This project had become the whole of his being, for it was the only thing in his life over which he had control. The only thing that made any sense.
His arms dropped as his current pool of energy was consumed. He reached for his canteen and squeezed the last few drops into his mouth, then tossed the empty skin away. He energized once more.
The design was one he had learned from the Panisahldrians. Gilshamed had scoffed when he first saw it—what valynkar would ever use such a thing?—but now, he wished he had paid closer attention. His seemed crude in comparison; a child’s attempt to mimic the adults. But, for his purposes, it would be enough.
And now, finally, it was finished. Gilshamed turned away.
The hill fort was only two klicks from the cave, and the lone squad left behind as stewards had—after some persuasion by Draevenus—brought wagons to help transport his kin. Gilshamed eyed the barracks door through which they now rested. His labors completed, he had nothing else to do but wait.
He blinked. The door opened. The sun, though hidden behind grey clouds, had shifted noticeably in the sky. Draevenus stepped out from the doorway. The mierothi looked towards him and slowly shook his head.
Gilshamed felt a hammer strike his soul.
He should have been prepared. Draevenus had told him he was not much of a healer. Had said not to hold out hope. But he could not help himself. Could not stop from dreaming dreams he had not dared to entertain in centuries. And the pain of fresh wounds, slashed across the festering of old, nearly drove him to his knees.
“I’m sorry,” Draevenus said. “I did all I could. Your people will undoubtedly have greater skill than I.”
Gilshamed nodded, grateful that this man whom he once called enemy would seek to comfort him. The sincerity of the gesture brought tears to his eyes.
“Remember this,” said Draevenus. “When you are back among the valynkar, tell them that not all of our kind are without mercy or compassion. Tell them that those responsible for the crimes of our ancient war have been punished. As my people go now to find a new place among the nations of the world, please remember that we wish only for peace.”
“I will.”
They stood facing each other for a long moment. The silence that stretched between them could not be called companionable, but still, a measure of respect persisted. Despite the despair he felt, Gilshamed had a glimmer of hope for the future.
Draevenus glanced past him. “Is it ready?”
“Yes. Please bring them out.”
The mierothi disappeared through the doorway. A mark later, carried on cushioned pallets by pairs of local soldiers, came his kin.
Gilshamed stepped into his construct, a rectangular, wagon-like vehicle, and guided the pallets into place as they came. Most of his kin slept. Some few, though, looked about lazily. He did not know what their minds perceived as their glazed eyes roamed, but it was certainly not reality. Whatever nightmare they had been trapped in all this time had taken everything from them. Not a one had any response beyond what could be expected from an infant.
He counted them as they were mounted into place. At thirty-nine, his heart began racing.
Two final pallets were lifted in
to his carriage. In one, the body of Voren. His pale form, so peaceful now, had been preserved within a sorcerous ward.
I take you back to our people now. You will buried on the hill of Elos’s Gaze, an honor only gifted to the greatest of the valynkar. An honor you have earned with your sacrifice.
Gilshamed guided Voren’s pallet into position, then turned to the last.
Lashriel lay atop it. Her arms rested on her stomach. Her eyes were closed. Her feet canted slightly to either side. Violet hair spread in a tangle beneath her head.
My love. . .
Gingerly, he moved his hand to her brow.
. . . I started a war to avenge you. . .
His fingers began combing through her hair.
. . . but now, I would tear down the heavens just to release you from this prison. . .
A sigh escaped her lips.
. . . and sacrifice anything, just for the chance to take your place.
His fingers snagged on a tangle, jerking her head slightly. Her eyes popped open. They stared directly into his.
Gilshamed sank into his ancient memories. All the times she would look at him. The love that poured forth. The joy he felt in her presence. The peace when they embraced.
He saw none of that now. Her eyes held no recognition. Soulless. Blank.
Gilshamed extracted his fingers. Lashriel’s head lolled, facing away from him, and her eyes—blessedly—closed.
He placed her pallet closest to the front, then began strapping himself into the harness.
“Will you not rest first?” Draevenus asked.
Gilshamed shook his head. “This land and I need to be separated, and yesterday is not soon enough.” He unfurled his wings. “I cannot rest until we are gone.”
He energized, then pushed a hair of power into the control mechanism of the wagon. It lifted into the air, becoming weightless. He rose with it.
Gilshamed surged forward, slowly accelerating as he pulled the mass behind him. Soon, the land beneath him was passing by in a blur. He aimed eastward.
With his kin in tow and the wind in his face, Gilshamed flew for home.
JASSIDE SHUFFLED ALONG quietly, just another mourner waiting for her turn to pay respects. The line stretched back behind her, all the way to the city gates, and before her just a few more steps to the raised platform overlooking the newest addition to the landscape.
A mound rose like the back of a slumbering giant, marking the mass grave that held all the fallen from the battle. The dead, from both sides, were honored here for their sacrifice.
Many women in line wore the full accoutrements of widows in mourning: lacy black fabric covering every bit of skin, and a veil hanging over the eyes. Jasside had considered donning the same but discarded the idea as being presumptuous. She’d settled instead for a plain black dress.
Her hands were held together at her waist, carefully cupping a small object as she stepped closer to the platform. It was almost her turn. The man who now stood upon its edge tossed a coin onto the mound, lingered a moment, then turned to make way for the woman behind him.
A pile glittered in the dirt. Not just coins either, but also trinkets and baubles, statues and knives, anything people had that held significance to them. All given away freely. Thousands of pieces already, with thousands more to come. A squad of soldiers stood guard to prevent their theft.
Jasside had thought long about her own show of respect. And with the power she now possessed, show indeed it could be. She’d pondered any number of grand gestures, from erecting a statue to summoning a permanent rain cloud above the barrow. But she’d dismissed them all. Such an act would only draw attention to herself, not the dead, and accomplish the opposite of her purpose in coming.
With a start, she realized no one else stood between her and the platform. She took a deep breath and walked up the wooden steps. Capping her emotions under a tight lid, she peered down upon the barrow.
Over two hundred thousand bodies lay interred beneath the soil. But the pain lancing across her soul was only for one.
They’d found only charred flesh beneath the crust. Not a single body from the chamber could be identified, and even the bones had been scattered. Only by the presence of each Andun, which had all escaped unmarred, were they able to know for certain who had perished there. Still, they’d scraped together what they could, placing the remains at rest alongside these fellow fallen.
Mevon. . .
Tears came to her eyes. Unbidden, but not unwelcome.
You gave to me, for a short while, a gift that I will cherish forever. A gift that I did not deserve. A gift that I had long since given up on ever finding. For that, my heart will always belong to you.
Jasside opened her hands, revealing the smelling-box trinket. It was the first device she’d ever made, beautiful for its simplicity and its purpose.
She tossed it forward.
Jasside turned and walked down the steps, and another took her place. A single thought ran through her mind, repeating itself over and over:
I have nothing left.
Her mother was dead. Her brother, too. And the man she would have loved lay in pieces beneath the dirt.
But the thought cut both ways.
Justice had been done to those responsible for her mother’s death. Her brother’s sacrifice had been justified by the victory of the revolution. Mevon, though gone, had awakened within her the ability to connect, to care for another, to love.
Everything tying me to this land has been severed. There is no longer any reason for me to stay.
Vashodia had extended the invitation. Jasside decided, then, to accept. For despite all her power and knowledge, the mierothi still needed someone at her side to be both conscience and temperance. Someone to, when necessary, plant her feet back on the soil.
And besides her ancient eyes, Vashodia still reminded Jasside of a certain little girl who, at too young an age, had lost her mother and her childhood in one grisly act. For that, Jasside would stay at her side, and in every way she knew how, show her love.
So, she would learn all she could, and attempt to kindle her understanding of Vashodia. In time, it would be enough to do what was needed—for the light in her own soul to balance out the darkness that held her mistress in its grip.
And together, she knew, they would accomplish wonders.
IN THE ROOM that had seen the death of the previous emperor, Yandumar stood before the crowd, still not quite believing what idiots they all were.
Everyone was present it seemed. At least, everyone who mattered. All the Ragremon elders in one group, the guild and enterprise representatives another. Sarian Thress sat, already scratching his quill across the parchment of an open tome. The commanders of the revolution and the rebellion and the surviving ranked soldiers of the Imperial army mingled together, none too happy about standing shoulder to shoulder with those who, just a week ago, were trying to kill them. Yandumar paid no attention to their grumblings. They would get over it. He would make them.
Mending bridges . . . easier said than done.
A squeeze on his hand brought his attention to the figure at his side. Slick Ren. His wife.
The elders threw a fit when he announced his intentions towards her. “She is not of our blood,” they had said. He remembered well the speech he’d given to shut them up.
“The vows of our people are complete. There’s no need to stick to traditions designed to keep us separate from the rest of the world. And every need to show this empire that I don’t intend to play favorites.”
Of course, that had also been the moment when he had inadvertently agreed to this asinine course of action. Yandumar sighed, looking into Slick Ren’s eyes. For her, the price was worth it.
At least, it had better be.
Abendrol Torn cleared his throat, raising an eyebrow expectantly at him.
> Yandumar sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”
Torn took out a scroll and ran his eyes over the contents. He inhaled deeply, then began his oration. “On this day, the thirty-fifth of Quarsis in the year 11,712 A.S., we, the victors over tyranny, do crown as emperor Yandumar Daere, and as empress his wife Elrenia Daere.”
That was it. Simple, pointed, sturdy. Just like the clothes they wore, the thrones they would sit on, the crowns now being placed upon their heads. Many had insisted that the ruler of an empire as great as this should display the power and wealth of his station at all times. They’d written up toll-long speeches, designed garments and thrones and crowns that were more gold and jewel than anything else, and generally intended for his life to be filled with all the things he hated.
A single word had come to mind at their suggestions: Ostentatious. And yes, Gilshamed, I do know what it means . . . now, anyway. He’d told all the sycophants to bite him.
In exactly those words.
With the crowning complete, his title became official. He began his appointments without another shred of ceremony. Derthon became the crown’s protector. Idrus, the supreme general of their army. Orbrahn, the minister of sorcery. Numerous people among both Ragremon elders and others to fill in governing positions left vacant by the departing mierothi.
Yandumar paused, looking over at a small figure hovering near the wall. She was his last appointment. “Ilyem Bahkere, will you accept the position of void master?”
She stepped forward. “I will.”
Yandumar nodded, turning his gaze over the crowd. Unlike the others, this one deserved an explanation. “The old system of Hardohl is abolished. As void master, she will have three tasks before her. First, to re-form the voids now serving into a new combat unit, one that is capable of responding to any kind of crisis.”
Heads nodded around the room. This was expected.
“Second, she is to gather whatever force she needs and escort the mierothi and daeloth out of this empire, ensuring they never return.”
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