by Brandon Barr
Wiluit nodded. “There is much to say about that, and I hardly understand it myself. It seems Harcor is god-gifted as we are, but he has turned. You remember the Cherah from Seethus’s writings—the story I read aloud.”
“Yes.”
“Isolaug gave Harcor a small flock of the creatures. They had gifts. Good gifts. But the creatures had been tainted in some way. Harcor was using them for his master’s cruel ends.”
“This is disturbing news,” said Meluscia. “I never imagined the god-gifted could use their talent for cruelty. I suppose it is not unlike my sister, who changed her path and used her cruelty for good.”
“How are you faring?” asked Wiluit. “I heard news of your father when I arrived here.”
“I am well enough. I was able to hold his hand as he passed. That was a gift.”
“And now you are Luminess,” said Wiluit warmly.
Meluscia whispered, “Yes, for a short time.” She placed both hands on her stomach. “I have much to do in the meantime.”
Wiluit stepped closer to Meluscia. “Do you remember your words in the woods? You insisted you saw a leader in me.”
“I remember.”
His green eyes blazed in the glow of the lit crystals. “I see the same in you, Meluscia. You are a great leader. And you are courageous for striving to defeat such a powerful enemy.”
Meluscia turned, uncomfortable with the undeserved praise. “Thank you, Wiluit.”
She walked over to the bookshelf and fidgeted with the spine of a random tome. She sighed. It was no use waiting to say what she wanted. She turned back to face him. “You and your band have gifts that could turn the scales of battle in our favor.” She raised an eyebrow. “Is there any hope that the five of you could be allies in my war against the Beast?”
“Yes and…maybe,” said Wiluit.
Her lips twisted into a smile. “What does that mean?”
“You wish for me and my band to be your allies, but I cannot promise you that. All I can promise is that I will stay and fight with you.” Wiluit knelt. “Luminess, it is my honor to serve you in your war effort.”
“On your feet!” she commanded.
When he stood, she embraced him, then finally drew back. “Do not kneel before me again. Besides being an ally, I consider you a friend.”
Wiluit’s smile was serious. “We’ve faced a great deal of danger together, and I suspect there is much more to come.”
Yes, thought Meluscia, together. Wiluit’s presence breathed confidence into her, and brought the frail hope of defeating Isolaug into the realm of true possibility.
Meluscia sighed, her thoughts turning to future plans. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “You must be tired, and I need some time alone to think. Tomorrow I will meet with my two councilors to prepare for the arrival of the regents. I should like it if you’d join us.”
“Of course,” said Wiluit. “I think I’ll sleep as hard as Seethus tonight.”
Meluscia laughed and Wiluit turned and left the room.
When he had gone, she prepped a new twig for lighting the next day, then one by one, blew out the candles, each red crystal going dark. In sightless black, she climbed the staircase and stepped outside into a swarm of stars.
The grey clouds and rain had passed.
She climbed atop the Scriptorium rock, to the edge of the sharp cliff that plummeted to the lower plateau. She fixed her gaze eastward, into the Star Garden Realm.
There was no sound where she sat, not even a cricket’s chirp, for it had grown too cold this high on the mountain. Silence brought a stir of thoughts. Praseme’s kind face and the warmth of her friendship. The shame she now felt when she looked at Mica. Savarah’s parting words of warning. The initial shock she felt discovering Savarah had been sent to kill her. King Feaor’s open-handed acceptance of her treaty. His decision to ally with her in war. Wiluit’s hand in hers as he led her through the thicket to the Maker. His kind words only moments ago.
Everything she’d fought honestly for had been won, her sins now made right.
Yet, everything she now needed, yearned for, or feared, was still uncertain. Could she unite the two Sea Kingdoms to her cause? What might the remaining spies do to create chaos?”
Would the war be won?
Would the child inside her be safe…would the little one live to be born?
Her eyes drifted up into the glory of stars above her.
Guide me past my worries.
Meluscia ran her fingers over Monaiella’s sheathed blade, gazing at it a long while under the blush of starlight.
A confident glint entered her eyes, and finally, she smiled.
RAM
The Kel-Kiehueth is alive. It is among us. A terror like his brethren, sunken eyes of a beast of burden buried in a mountain of deadly flesh.
And the way it enters your mind—it is like the raking of a demented god.
Yet, hail the Kel-Kiehueth, for its life marks the freeing of our world.
-Tortosh, Temple Keeper of the Doyyg Shrine
CHAPTER 45
WINTER
The moment she stepped through the portal, a sultry heat filled her lungs. The air was heavy, humid, and it immediately clung to her skin like a hot day after a summer thunderstorm. Stretching to her right was a long line of odd-looking trees. The enormous green branches hung down around pedestal-like trunks. Further beyond them was thick green foliage too dense to see through. The sight of such alien plants and trees filled her with a sense of wonder.
She was on another world, staring at an exotic forest— not a forest, but a jungle, her VOKK interpreted.
The smell of the jungle was thick with damp wood and pungent with fungus and rotting leaves.
“This is it,” said Galthess from behind her. He was looking down at a small device in his hands. “The coordinates are exact. The sun of this world is the tip of the Huntress’ spear.” He peered up from his device. “What a gorgeous view.”
Winter turned and looked opposite the trees, following his gaze. Her feet carried her forward along the edge of the jungle. She was speechless, for the moment was too powerful for words.
And yet, something was not right.
As she turned full circle, she realized she and Galthess stood upon a plateau. Stretching beyond a sheer drop was a vast horizon of green, tree-tangled mountains. And straight ahead, the sky was tinted pink. Only a quarter of the sun remained visible, but as she watched, she realized that though the sun had been setting on her own world, here on this new planet, the sun was rising.
What was it about this view that unnerved her?
She stood frozen as a sense of familiarity fell upon her. It was such an odd sensation to feel…as if she’d been here long ago.
“Would you look at this!” shouted Galthess excitedly. He’d walked to the edge of the plateau and was looking down over the drop.
Winter took a step toward him, and then stopped. A memory, faint as a dream, began to emerge.
Her newest vision. This was the place.
This is where she would be pushed off into the abyss below.
“What’s wrong, Winter?” Galthess sounded concerned.
She took a step back. It was an act…his divulging information to her. It was his way of leading her away to where he could….
“Are you alright?” he asked. “You look pale.”
She glanced back along the path she’d traveled, toward the portal. All she could see were the strange looking trees. It dawned on her now that she hadn’t taken the time to look at her immediate surroundings after coming through the portal. The way back to Loam could be hidden among any of those trees. Looking at the endless line of strange foliage, she felt suddenly disoriented.
“I want to go back,” said Winter.
“You can’t go back,” said Galthess gently. “You’re the Contagion. The portals do not work the same for you as they do for the rest of us.”
She turned to look at him. He remained at the edge of
the plateau.
“If you step back through the portal,” he said, “you’ll be taken to Hearth, the third planet. The only way you can get back to Loam is if you go through the portal at Hearth.
“But then, the circuit around the triangle will be complete. I can’t let that happen.”
“But you said….”
A heaviness entered Galthess’s eyes, almost as if he were deciding something. “I lied to you, Winter.”
Winter edged backward toward the jungle. “Then why did we come here? So you could push me off the edge?”
Galthess left the cliffside and walked toward her. “You’ve had a vision.”
“Stay where you are,” said Winter.
“You’re lost here, Winter. I watched you. You didn’t pay attention to the portal as you exited. It’s a mistake we all make at first.” He took something sleek and black from his pocket, a ball the size of his fist.
Galthess stared down at the smooth black ball, and seemed to weigh his options. “Winter, it is the gods who’ve cursed you, not I. I don’t want to kill you, but you are the Contagion. Your life is like a key and it leads to the pit of the unknown. If you were to make the circuit of the triangle and unleash whatever lies beyond, there’s no telling what new cruelty might come upon our galaxy.”
Winter felt her breaths shorten. She sensed the need to say something—to delay Galthess—as if doing so might prolong her own death. “Did you lie about your doubts? Do you not question the conclusions of your order?”
Galthess continued to gaze down at the ball in his hand. “I do question them—I struggle with the Scrivers’ writings. But I’m not convinced yet. I still have faith in the Consecrators and their mission.” His eyes lifted to her face. “You are an Oracle, Winter. A very dangerous Oracle. And though I wish it otherwise, I must kill you.”
His words left her frozen even as a voice inside her head told her to run.
He knelt and set the ball on the ground. “I promise it won’t hurt. Just a little prick and this will all be over.”
The ball sprouted black, spindly legs, like a spider. Winter took two steps back toward the jungle.
How would the gods protect her now? If she ran, it would be impossible to find her way back.
The legs of the little black ball began to twitch into the air, then it jumped, and without hesitation, scampered toward her.
Rational thought was cast from her mind as instinct took control.
She spun and ran into the thick green trees, flinging away branches with her arms. Before she’d gone very far, a low vine caught her foot and she slid face first into mud and brush. She hurried to her feet and threw a quick look behind her.
Following her into the jungle was Galthess…and the little spider ball, its legs a fury of deadly motion.
EPILOGUE
ISOLAUG
“My Divine King!” cried a voice.
The king turned in dignified slowness and appraised the figure running down the twisting rows of arched pillars. It was a clean-shaven man dressed in a robe the color of the lightest azure skies. The robe and the smooth scalp marked him as one of the Glory Watchmen who guarded The Temple of the Divine King.
Isolaug’s small, scaly body lay hidden on the king’s neck. It was covered by the human’s long, smoky black hair that flowed in waves down to the golden sash tied about his waist. The king’s nose and mouth twitched slightly as Isolaug took full control of him.
“My Divine King,” repeated the glory watchman, falling to the ground and kissing the smoothed stone the king stood upon. “The Guardian Cultivator wishes a word with you.”
“I shall wait here for him,” said Isolaug.
The watchman rose to his feet, bowed, then hurried back through the pillars. Isolaug moved to the window and peered over the stone ledge where a fierce wind ruffled his hair. The long walkway to the temple rested on the top of an ancient volcanic ridge that curved back and forth like a serpent until it reached Mount Durazyn, where the four caverns of the temple lay embedded within.
Down below lay the vast city of Praelothia, hemmed in by the ring of mountains and walls. A gong sounded in the distance, signaling that the Divine King was in view. A cry, like the distant hum of insect wings, rose all about the city as the worshippers fell to their knees and searched for the sighting. Those on the road at the base of the ridge pointed excitedly up at him. Shuttered windows sprang open all along the cottage towers, and bodies spilled out of shops and balconies to grovel and hope for the good fortune of seeing their deity.
Isolaug lifted the king’s hand into the air and waved, his loose white robe whipping about him in the gale. Then he turned back into the confines of the temple walkway, lest his worshippers abandon their daily duties in an adulate frenzy of praise.
The gong sounded twice, marking The Divine King was no longer in view.
Isolaug waited in the shadows of a pillar. The current king’s body was the healthiest one he’d inhabited over the last five hundred years, a much improved stock over the long succession of kings in the royal lineage of the Star Garden Realm. Even so, he already had an eye on the most promising descendant when the time for a new king arose.
Down the winding walkway, the Guardian Cultivator appeared with an escort of six Glory Watchmen.
“My Divine King,” said Hezzat, performing a meager bow. The six watchmen encircled the king, drawing thin, steel swords from the folds of their sky blue robes before taking a knee—the mandated procedure whenever the king spoke to an unbeliever.
Isolaug could smell the hot disgust on the Cultivator’s breath. He knew how much Hezzat despised his unquestioned power over the Praelothians. He was a weak and fearful man, deeply bothered by the Divine King’s ascendency.
Isolaug smiled. Fearful men like Hezzat were so easy to control. “What news have the portal Guardians for the king?”
“Were you expecting a starship to arrive yesterday?” queried Hezzat in his typical flat tone. It was a poor mask for his annoyance.
Isolaug raised his chin, and spoke as if not insulted. “I am expecting the sky merchants to arrive this month, but you know how they are. They come when they come.”
Hezzat’s high-bone cheeks lost their color. “Why were we not informed? When you are expecting a starship, it is policy that you tell us.”
“You watch the skies all day and all night with your intricate apparatuses. Why should we inform you? It should be the other way around.”
“It is charter protocol that you inform us of off-planet arrivals you are aware of. It is for your safety, oh Divine One.”
Isolaug enjoyed when Hezzat was driven to sarcasm. And when he feigned to not have comprehended the insult, it only frustrated Hezzat further.
“Very well, I shall strive to have you informed, though I can’t see how it will help you. The Sky Merchants might not arrive for another two months.”
Some condescending twinkle shone in Hezzat’s eyes. “A starship crashed on Hearth yesterday. I suspect it was your merchants, for they were heading straight for Praelothia when their ship abruptly turned off course and crashed near the foothills across the wasteland.”
Isolaug was silent a moment, his face as calm as a windless sea, but lying beneath the mask was fury—his most prized animal was aboard that ship. The climax of half a millennium would not be delayed!
In the stillness he carefully concealed his anger—which currently rested on Hezzat’s twinkling, humor-filled eyes. At a simple command, the Glory Watchmen would have dutifully sawed the Cultivator’s head off.
Isolaug drew a long lock of his hair over his shoulder and stroked his fingers through it until he was ready to speak. “This is…terrible news,” he finally declared.
“I have the coordinates of the wreckage,” said Hezzat. “I assume you’ll want them.”
“Thank you,” said Isolaug, gathering his white robe to him. “Give the coordinates to the head watchman. And have him inform Captain Danturas.”
Isolaug spu
n about and walked briskly toward the temple gates.
“There is one more matter,” called Hezzat. “Rueik, the Guardian Missionary has returned home. He is eager to speak with you.”
Isolaug turned a quarter-step back toward Hezzat. “Rueik? Send him to the temple immediately.”
With that, Isolaug turned again for the temple gates. He had been anticipating Rueik’s return, and the good news that Loam was finally rid of the Guardians as they had planned.
At the king’s presence, a line of thirty Glory Watchmen began to chant. One by one, they bowed their heads to the ground as the king approached the great wooden gate.
None shall pass these doors but our king and any he deems worthy. May his progeny grow strong and healthy, and may the loins of the child bearers give fruit.
The last of the watchmen reached up and pulled open the wicket door as the king neared. Above, stood the massive, opal-studded gate that had not been opened since its creation four hundred years ago. It was designed for one purpose. Not grandeur, nor vanity, but a large body. A body that would destroy every kingdom on Hearth…and if he could outmatch the other Beasts, vanquish a thousand portal worlds beyond.
Isolaug did not relish many things, but the look on Hezzat’s face when he realized the true purpose of the temple…that would be a moment to savor.
An echo of voices began to call as the king took the stairs down to the Sanctuary of Descendants. “Divine Father! He’s here!”
A group of more than five hundred small children ran to the king, their voices echoing gleefully in the large cavern.
Isolaug raised his hand and the horde of pattering feet slowed, happy voices quieting to whispers. “Don’t touch Father—slow down—don’t push—remember the rules. Careful of Father’s hair.”
“Will you play with us?” asked one of the younger boys, a thick, tawny braid draped over his right shoulder.
“Yes, Divine Father! Play!” squeaked a younger girl.