Oathen

by Giacomo, Jasmine

  “Please,” he asked, his eyes gently insistent. “I feel now how much you distrusted me recently, but just because you can read my mind now doesn’t mean everything is all right between us. I want to start again. Don’t you?”

  He really means it, Sanych realized. She nodded. He opened the door, hearing it squeak on its hinges from infrequent use, and led her inside the dark room. A table, two chairs, a wardrobe, a small basin and ewer on a half-circle table, and a wide bed with a dark red coverlet were all that furnished the room, aside from numerous floor-rugs and an unused fireplace stocked with dry wood.

  “All right, what sort of starting again did you have in mind?” Sanych asked, rubbing her arms against the cold for a moment. She focused a beam of light at the fireplace logs, narrowing it to a fiery point, and the bottom-most log caught fire.

  Geret stared at the fire for a moment. “That’ll take some getting used to.” He took her hands, murmuring for her to sit on the bed’s edge. Her brow wrinkled, and vulnerability and mistrust hovered thinly around her.

  “Wait just a minute,” he said, as she sat. He turned away and grabbed the empty washing basin, planting it upside down between the bed’s enormous feather pillows. “There we go.”

  Sanych could only read smugness and excitement from him; he was enjoying not telling her what he was doing, and pleased she hadn’t figured it out yet.

  “All right, scootch over,” he said, his voice eager.

  Sanych eyed him, but sensed nothing to give her pause. She slid over next to the wall, and Geret lay down on the coverlet next to her.

  As she lay down, head next to the upturned basin, he looked over at her and frowned. “It’s still not right yet,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The lighting’s not right. Can you make some stars on the ceiling for us? Please?” he asked, and she felt the first flickerings of his self-consciousness.

  Sanych’s eyes shifted back and forth. Finally, she understood what he was doing, if not why. She raised a finger and pointed at the ceiling; a few dozen starry lights winked into existence, shimmering down on them.

  He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes far away. “Perfect.”

  Sanych smiled, turning her head toward him. “The Cuttleboat. But…why the basin?”

  He rapped it with his knuckles and chuckled, “It’s a coconut, of course.” Sanych snorted in laughter, and Geret nodded against the coverlet. “That’s when things started going wrong between us; I kissed you when I shouldn’t have. I should have respected your choice, should have respected you. I didn’t realize how strong my feelings were for you, until I couldn’t stop myself.” He looked away from her eyes, and she felt a wash of shame rush through him. “The same thing happened with Rhona, in a way. I was so distracted—”

  “Geret,” Sanych interrupted, sending him a rush of irritation, “you’re repeating yourself. You’ve been running this guilty song through your head ever since we were Oathbound.”

  “Well,” he blustered, defensive, “it’s on my mind!”

  That made her grin. “All right, that’s fair,” she said, brushing a calming hand down his arm. “But I’ll be glad when you pick something else to obsess about.”

  He looked into her eyes. “I wanted to go back to this moment and start again with you. Make things different this time, better. Maybe even right.”

  “So, you’re not going to kiss me this time?” she teased.

  “I’ll kiss you if you choose to let me, Sanych, and only then. That Oathbinding was pretty powerful, and I’m not sure I’m ready to jump into being together with you, knowing it was sparked by a spell instead of by us. I want us to do this together. Whatever it ends up being.”

  Sanych nodded silently; she mirrored his feelings on that matter. “Then I guess you’d better kiss me.”

  The rush of emotion from Geret took Sanych’s breath away. At her quiet sigh, he eased his shoulders toward her across the coverlet, smiling into her eyes, and let his lips press against hers for a long moment.

  “This is a good fresh start.” Her hand slipped into his palm in the dark, and they lay together, sharing emotions with their heads tilted together, touching, as if to encourage the transfer of feelings.

  When Geret sat up to seek his own bed a while later, she tugged on his hand. “Stay.”

  He frowned. “After all those unhappy thoughts you keep having, you ask me that?”

  Her eyes met his in the winking starlight, and she made her feelings known through their bond.

  “You’re right,” he said in response to her unspoken explanation, “I wouldn’t want that to happen either.”

  He tugged off his boots, and then hers, plunking them onto the floor, and they slipped under the covers. Geret reached out an arm and wrapped her small waist, scooping her against him, her back against his chest. Laying a kiss against the back of her ear, her prince sighed in deep contentment and murmured, “Rest well, Archivist.”

  Sanych relaxed against his warmth, the tension and heartache of the day, and of many days beforehand, fading into pale jade shadows. “Rest well,” she murmured, “Oathen.”

  In moments, they were both asleep in the starlight.

  ~~~

  Meena did not sleep. She didn’t need it, especially on the very eve of what she hoped would be the final battle of her life.

  She sat sideways between two of the magic-formed, toothy crenellations atop the castle’s wall, her view of the rolling forested hills hindered only by darkness. Her knees were pulled to her chest and her back pressed against cold stone. The toes of her boots bent up against the next crenel. The freezing wind whirled around her, through her short red hair, and she let it soothe her into a state of reminiscence and meditation.

  Hours passed; she considered the generations she’d outlived, and how she’d shaped their future with her arbitrary will. The world as it existed now was largely as she had intended it, at least in some lands.

  Shanal was finally going to be one of them: her last gift to the world, and especially to her new-found children.

  Her cheek felt the bite of a particularly strong gust of icy wind as her thoughts turned to her Oathen, sacrificed by her actions hundreds of years earlier. Here and now, he felt more vivid than he had in decades.

  Arisson. Perhaps, this last time, I will finally find you.

  She sighed, tipping her head back against the stone. She’d never mourned him properly. She’d fled the day he died, and returned only rarely, busy with her own planet-saving agenda. Time had blunted her sorrow and loss to a dull weight, invisible in her heart like a stone forgotten in one’s pouch, only drawing notice when the fingers of her mind brushed against it. Now it was far too late for mourning.

  It was never too late for vengeance, though. She slitted her eyes and smiled with dark promise. She had not been able to protect her Oathen, but by the blood of the ancient dragons of Shanal, she would avenge him. Once and for all.

  Determination firmed in her mind like a steel blade, and she smiled into the weak orange light of impending dawn as it fought its way through the scudding clouds. Daily, light won over darkness. And today, she hoped to do the same.

  Below in the castle yard, a motion caught her eye. She looked down to see a rider approach and enter the castle gates. The protective spells didn’t even ripple at his presence. Meena grinned. Only one man in the world had that power.

  And he had kept his promise.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The imposing magma cone of the Green Dragon rose high into the sky, higher even than the ancient caldera wall to the north. Its upper slopes were laced with steaming fumaroles and miniature craters whose warmth melted the recent snowfall. Its rough summit was lost in a cloud bank that was lit from below by the rising sun, creating the illusion of magma-glow. The Green Dragon had not erupted in several thousand years, though; spellcasters from an age long dead had tamed and shaped the fiery mountain, attuning it to their purposes and rendering it safe.


  As safe as it could be, for a magic-ridden, active volcano filled with bolt holes and protective traps created to shelter royalty in times of unrest. That it was also rumored to be the ancient home of mythical dragons just added to its dark and dangerous mystery.

  The base of the mountain was narrow and nearly circular, and its surrounding hills and forests were free from villages and cultivated fields. Only a few roads wound their way through its red, rocky soil.

  That was just one of the reasons it made an excellent location for Dzur i’Oth’s stronghold, beneath the ancient Dragon Temple that clung to the mountain’s rocky slopes.

  A warm breeze had begun trying its luck at melting the snow that had fallen yesterday, and the few inches of snow on the ground were already slushy. Birds chattered and scolded, and rock voles scuttled about in search of snowed-under roots for breakfast. The world seemed at peace, giving no sign of the evil being wrought below, as the Great and Dire Tome and its avatar worked ritual after ritual, in spite of the mortal body’s hunger pangs and exhaustion. Avatars did not deserve a say in their treatment.

  On the breezy, cool surface of the world above, in a high, snowy field a quarter-mile from the Dragon Temple campus, thirty people blinked in, invisible within Sanych’s shield. Then she vanished, leaving the shield in place. Five heartbeats later, another group landed next to the first, shielded as well. Shortly, two hundred Scions stood cloaked from sight outside their mortal enemy’s lair.

  Sanych blinked back with the final group, panting under the strain of holding so many large shields up, even at a focal point for earth magic. Shields at the farmhouse and at the Ochre Masks’ tower in Cish kept the Scions she’d transported there from being detected as well. Ahm and Narjin put their hands on her shoulders and lent her a portion of their magical potential.

  Meena glanced at Sanych, seeing the strain on her face. “Quickly,” she said to the man who had arrived at Sosta’s castle at dawn. The man strode forward toward the temple, his hands outstretched.

  ~~~

  Curzon the Crooked stopped at the outermost spell barrier around the temple, his long white braids swaying down his back in the warm breeze. The barrier glowed a faint green to his eyes. He raised his hands, shaping an arch. It was time to fulfill the last part of his promise.

  His words to Meena, back in the castle yard, echoed in his head. “I’m here,” he had grumped, as she stepped out to greet him. “But only because I promised, and I do keep my word, regardless of when I gave it. Once we’re done with this business, I’m back to my cave, and maybe I can finally get some peace and quiet, without any more Scions pestering me for training!”

  Snapping back to the present, Curzon thrust his magic ahead of him, and an arched tunnel flowed forward, undetectably raising the edges of every barrier the cult had erected. Past the green barrier—a simple alarm—was a purplish one that caused temporary confusion. Another bluish barrier was next, and so on until finally Curzon could only see the ancient white stones of the temple wall ahead of him.

  Holding the tunnel in place with the sheer force of his will, he turned and crossed his arms, looking back at the host of invaders, whom he could see clearly through Sanych’s shield. “All right, then,” he called, nodding toward the tunnel. It lit up with a soft yellow glow, showing the others the way.

  Meena led the charge, sword in hand, as she, her companions, and all two hundred Scions rushed in past him. “Back to your cave, Hermit,” she said, shooting him a brilliant smile that Curzon shuddered to see. It was the sort that would not falter at the sight of death, but would more likely morph into a rabid laugh.

  Sanych let her shield narrow and fade into nothingness, slowing to a halt as she reached Curzon. The other warriors and spellcasters, magics flaring and swords glinting, darted up the central stairs to the ancient temple, between massive, eroded white pillars whose carved reliefs hadn’t been decipherable for generations.

  “Ready?” Sanych asked, eyes on the Scions, memorizing their positions.

  “Yes.” Curzon nodded.

  He finished his nod in his own cave. Sanych gave him a brilliant smile and a quick, heartfelt murmur of thanks, and then she was gone again.

  Just like that, the purpose of his entire life had been served. He blinked for a moment, running a thumb over the nubs in his favorite braid. Seeing the colors of magic, and being able to bend and even destroy the magics of others, might have made him the world’s most feared and revered magician, and he knew it. Some days—some cycles—his promise had chafed terribly on his soul. But he had given his word to the woman who saved his sanity. Even though he had once been a thief, the power of his word was binding, because he wished it so.

  Over time, his dreams of glory and power had faded, and at this very moment, his promise finally complete, he found himself perfectly content to possess no more than the quiet security of his home in the cliff, overlooking the majestic Emerald River.

  I only wish, he thought, as he ambled across the fur-strewn floor toward his mended cooking pot, that she hadn’t waited quite so long to call in her favor.

  ~~~

  “I step out of the world for two days, and wake to find my Dictat decimated, my rule secure once more, and myself with a wife,” Beret said in a faint voice.

  “My deepest apologies, Beret, for saving your realm from a coup,” Anjoya said. She took his hand as she sat on the edge of his wide bed.

  “Oh, I forgive you.” He smiled. “It’s simply been a long time since I went unaware of a happening in Vint. I’m grateful for, and humbled by, your actions. You had nothing at stake, had nothing to lose through inaction.”

  “Respectfully, I beg to differ. My choices have led me to Vint, and I like to hope that I’ll spend the rest of my days here. I have a vested interest in making my future as secure as possible.”

  “Well, you’ve done so with aplomb, in a move worthy of any Dictat member.” He shifted, then cleared his throat. “Do you, er, intend to continue the role of Magistra?”

  “I think I should do so for at least as long as it takes you to fully recover, don’t you?”

  “Indeed. Perhaps as long as until Geret’s return?”

  Anjoya’s eyes widened. She’d assumed the Magister would summarily thank her for her trouble, then have the marriage annulled. “That’s very generous of you, my lord. But may I make a small confession to you?”

  Beret sat up straighter against his feather pillows. “Of course.”

  “I have found Addan pleasant and entertaining, and I would be more than happy to spend more time with him. But every hour in your presence has further reminded me of the one who is yet missing from my life.”

  “You speak of Kemsil.”

  Anjoya nodded, looking down. “I have done many things for the sake of my job, both personal and political, and Kemsil has accepted them all. But I left that life behind. Though there might be great advantage in remaining Magistra, I know it would hurt Kemsil, should he live to return with Geret. I’m afraid I must decline.”

  Beret made a slow nod of acceptance. “Then I shall accept your help for as long as you’re willing to give it.”

  “Beret, you may always ask my help. After our adventure these last few days, I should hope you know you can trust me.”

  Beret smiled. “Indeed I do. In that case, can I trust you to select a suitably lively tunic for me? It’s about time I let the city know I’m not dead.”

  ~~~

  The Dragon Temple’s myriad passageways formed a veritable labyrinth. The temple had three levels above the ground, with rows of arched windows and colonnades. Below the ground, however, Dzur i’Oth had carved out their own dark domain, closer to the throbbing red heart of the volcano. The Scions were forced to split into small groups and search for the enemy down each dusty hallway and in every abandoned room. As the groups made their way below, they found their first resistance in the hallways where the white granite of the temple gave way to the dark basalt of the earth itself.
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  Rhona lunged aside as a chunk of basalt tumbled through the air where her torso had just been. As it crashed into the wall behind her, cracking it, Narjin shot a tight flare of blue fire into the cultist who had magically hurled the stone. With a scream, he dropped to the floor, writhing.

  Ruel and Salvor fought back to back among several Enforcers, and Geret ran to join them, ramming his blade into an enemy’s back. As the man fell, Geret slipped in beside his friends.

  “Time to find out exactly how this Oathbinding works in battle,” he said with a grin, engaging another Enforcer.

  ~~~

  Sanych and Meena slipped from doorway to doorway in a dark corridor two levels below the Scions’ battle. The faint sounds of swords and magic faded into the distance as they descended further into the labyrinthine tunnels. The walls were lit with bright, pale-green torches that never sputtered or flickered. Their light gave the rock a wet, living appearance.

  Sanych’s every nerve was on end as she trailed after Meena. She held a shield of invisibility around them both, but sound still carried, unlike with Kemsil’s lost Circuit, so she tried her best to imitate the Shanallar’s stealth.

  A dozen Enforcers jogged around a corner and up the hall toward the battle above, serrated weapons at the ready. The only way to avoid physical contact in the narrow corridor was to retreat, but Meena hadn’t brought her here to avoid contact.

  Meena looked at Sanych, tipping her head toward the oncoming swordsmen; her green irises were eerie in the torchlight. Sanych raised her hands. Meena stepped aside and covered her eyes.

  A light filled the corridor, slicing toward the enemy. When it faded, the bodies of the Enforcers lay scattered on the stone floor, their heads rolling separately. Sanych winced and looked away. Meena kicked one of the heads aside and strode down the hallway without her. Sanych had to hop over the bodies to keep up.

  ~~~

  “Folly!” Geret cursed, ducking under a serrated sword and jamming his sword into the chest of the woman who wielded it.