Oathen

by Giacomo, Jasmine

  The great dragon sighed, his lungs soughing like an enormous bellows. The fade of our magic also twisted the book we gifted to mortals. Its power entropied from order into chaos. This is why there is no magic left in your world that can counter it: it is dragon magic gone sour.

  “You…can’t destroy it?” Meena said, her face gone slack.

  A wash of amusement flooded Sanych’s mind as the dragon considered Meena’s words. I can, immortal mortal. And I will, for you have carried on the dragons’ ancient work these last centuries. Once, we sculpted the kingdoms of men, and they were the better for it. You have done the same. But long since have I tired of holding this mortal form together. If my fading should balance the scales between dragons and mortals, then I welcome it. The dragon’s mental tone held a distant eagerness.

  “Then I must ask you one more thing,” Meena said, her face gaunt. “Destroy me with it.” She stepped to the book and picked it up. Its silver wrapping was entirely gone, and wave after wave of its twisted power ate at Meena’s flesh, only to be replaced and destroyed again.

  ~~~

  Geret, Salvor and Ahm struggled to fight their way through a dozen Enforcers and back to the tunnel entrance, away from the fervent heat of the plodding golem behind them. Geret shoved a squat Enforcer into Salvor’s path. The nobleman’s fiery blade snapped the man’s sword in two, and his return stroke lifted his head from his shoulders. A moment later, the man was tumbling head after heels into the lava below.

  “You have all the fun,” Geret said, feeling the golem’s heat strengthening behind him.

  “I do,” said Salvor. “And you should back up and let me have fun with this fellow, too. The cultists are too many.”

  “You want to fight him alone?”

  “I have to fight him alone.”

  Geret watched as Salvor turned and sliced a chunk of the golem’s arm away, then dodged beneath its fist, which cracked the wall and showered him with smoking gravel.

  The nobleman laughed aloud, taunting the magical creation. “You fight like my aunt! Where’s your stirring spoon?” His blade severed the creature’s arm. The enormous hunk of rock tumbled between them, nearly landing on Salvor’s boot. Then thick globs of hot lava exuded from the creature’s elbows, hardening into new forearms. Glowing fingers flexed.

  Salvor paused in mid-swing, glaring. “Cheater.”

  Behind him, Geret turned to Ahm, who was trapping the remaining Enforcers between two metal walls.

  “I can’t leave him to fight it alone,” Geret said. “It’s a lava monster!”

  “He’s the one with the magic sword. Yours would melt in an instant against that creature.”

  “Then make me one as well, without Narjin’s fire!”

  A moment later, Geret jogged up beside Salvor, magic sword gleaming.

  ~~~

  Destroy you, immortal mortal?

  “The Tome made me what I am; destroy its magic within me and let me die.”

  I see your mind is set, the great beast’s thoughts rumbled. Very well. I will take your immortality as well as the broken book that curst you with it.

  Meena nodded, stepping to the edge of the island. The hot wind whipped through her short red hair. Sanych covered her mouth, her eyes filling with tears that evaporated before they could fall.

  The Shanallar looked over her shoulder, her eyes already far away. “Farewell, Sanych. Take care of that princeling of yours.”

  Sanych could barely speak. “Thank you, Meena. For everything!”

  “No, thank you. Thank you,” Meena breathed, a prayer to the universe.

  Sanych dropped to her knees, hugging herself, unable to look away. The hot mineral winds whipped her hair into knots.

  Farewell, mortal, the dragon thought to Sanych. You and your Oathen will triumph in harmony. The dragon unfurled his leathery green wings with a snap, flinging bits of molten lava through the air. With a clap of air, his wings swept down, propelling him out of the lava and into the air. His slender tail arced, its green scales fading to grey.

  A soft, melodic note reached Sanych’s ears, growing louder and more harmonic in moments. Sanych felt pacified, humbled. For a moment, she forgot her name, her purpose, forgot she even possessed magic, such was the wonder of the dragon’s final song.

  The dragon reached his apex and began to arc back down toward the island. His long, slender neck extended toward Meena, and his jaws opened.

  Sanych gasped. Hadn’t Meena been eaten enough times already?

  The dragon’s mouth closed over the Shanallar and the Dire Tome. Dragon, book and woman vanished. A strange sensation pressed against Sanych’s ears, like a sound too high to hear; it resonated with of the loss of an irreplaceable wonder.

  She closed her eyes. As the era of dragons ended long ago, so closes the era of the Shanallar.

  Realizing she could not take the blazing heat of the lava much longer, Sanych blinked onto the ledge near the tunnel exit, seeing Oolat still begummed to the wall, crying and cursing over the loss of his precious Tome.

  Her eyes slitted. The Tome’s chaos might have been an accident, but its use by Dzur i’Oth had been oh so purposeful. She stalked toward the man.

  “Come to battle me again, little one?” he spat.

  She didn’t reply. Her hands raised, white power flaring in her palms. “For the Shanallar.”

  The man’s white eyes widened in disbelief as Sanych stepped closer and splayed her fingers. Onix Oolat vanished under her raging magic, screaming in denial, leaving only hints of grey ash in the globs of dragon goo that remained, unharmed, on the wall.

  The very, very least I could do for you, Meena, Sanych thought, letting her tears begin to fall.

  A rocky clatter and Geret’s sudden alarm jerked her out of her incipient sorrow. She looked across the lava pit and gasped in horror.

  The lava golem was exploding, its molten guts flying. The creature’s mighty chest blew straight toward Geret. Salvor darted in front of his prince and shoved him back toward Ahm, who had just crushed the last Enforcer on the rim with a massive metal cube.

  Sanych blinked across, throwing out beams of light that dissolved some of the flying chunks of melted rock in midair. But as quickly as she had arrived, she was still too late to stop them all.

  Dozens of half-liquid rock chunks had already thudded into Salvor’s body, spinning him to the floor. Flesh and fabric melted away. He managed only a short cry of agony before crashing onto the ledge and lying still.

  Geret had skidded to one knee a few paces behind Salvor. He and Ahm began to thread their way back to Salvor through the smoking golem fragments.

  “Stay there; I’ll blink us out,” Sanych called.

  A moment later, she stood beside her Oathen. Salvor lay broken and burned at her feet. She backed up, covering her mouth, unable to tear her eyes from his body. A moment ago he had been winning the battle. Now, the left side of his body was crushed and scorched, and rocks had melted into his skin.

  “Oolat died, so the golem did too…” Her voice quavered and failed. “I should have been faster.”

  “Stupid fool,” Geret said, scraping fingers through his hair with an agonized expression. “He wouldn’t leave the golem to me. I’m an Oathen. I should have ordered him back, or, or…demanded his sword. Folly!”

  Ahm knelt by Salvor. “You couldn’t have known the golem would explode, Sanych. Maybe Oolat made it to explode.”

  “Is he still alive?” Sanych asked, sinking to her knees, breathing the stench of burned flesh.

  The old Scion nodded. “For now. But it’s only a matter of time. This much damage is going to kill him, and I’d call it a mercy.”

  Sanych bit back a sob.

  “No. He sacrificed himself in my place,” Geret said. “I can’t just let him die. Sanych, get us back to the Dragon Temple.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  Rhona sat on the white marble steps of the Dragon Temple, binding a wound on her forearm with a strip from a dead c
ultist’s shirt. If it hadn’t been for Narjin and her fire magic, Rhona knew she wouldn’t have survived. Behind her, Narjin and the other Scions who had survived the final battle patched each other up and shared water. Rhona just wanted to be alone.

  A tired sense of justice filled her; every last Dzur i’Oth member had been killed in the rooms and tunnels below. Her quest in Shanal was complete, though the reason behind it was meaningless now. She looked down at Ruel’s body.

  I have only begun to sing your Lay, cousin. Every action I take now, let it be only for the glory of Agonbloom.

  She pulled the makeshift bandage tight using her teeth and fingers, thinking ahead to reuniting with her ships, which were raiding somewhere off the southern coast.

  A flash of color caught her eye. She turned to see Sanych on the steps, along with Geret and Ahm, who bore an unconscious Salvor on a slim metal stretcher. Ahm and Geret laid Salvor down, then Ahm jogged off toward the other Scions.

  “What happened?” Rhona asked. “Where’s Meena?”

  Sanych met her eyes. “Meena’s dead. The green dragon destroyed her and the Dire Tome together. It was what she wanted.”

  Rhona looked at the Archivist, seeing the emotions flickering over her face, and nodded.

  Geret looked down on the dead Clansmen. “Ruel, too?” He bowed his head for a moment, then turned to Rhona. “I’m so sorry. I know you were very close. I’m proud to have known him—” He stopped abruptly as Rhona’s freshly-cleaned blade snaked against his neck. “Rhona!?”

  Sanych’s palms flared.

  But Geret paused, seeing the tears of self-recrimination that spilled from Rhona’s eyes. When he stopped moving, so did Sanych. That scurvy-ridden bond again, Rhona thought.

  “If I killed you,” she began, “would it make me feel better, in the moments before Sanych kills me in return? Would it absolve my soul from this burden of guilt? I turned my back on my entire people for you, Geret Branbrey Valan!” She pressed her blade into the flesh of his throat. He leaned back, breathing cautiously through his nose.

  Rhona’s gaze dropped, followed by her blade; it hung limply in her grip. “Ruel was right about you, and he was right about me. I dragged him into this, my foolish quest for love and power. And now he’s dead. It’s not your fault; it’s mine. But if not for you…” Her blade twitched again.

  Geret waited silently. Sanych still aimed a palm at her.

  Rhona’s shoulders slumped; she turned toward the slushy meadow. “I’ve met the requirements of my Age Quest. The cult is destroyed, to a man. So I’m done. With you, with Shanal. With dirtwalkers. All of you can rot in your stinking mud-filled holes for all I care. As soon as I can steal a horse and wagon, I’m taking Ruel to my ships and sailing back home. If I never see land again, it’ll be too soon!”

  ~~~

  Geret saw Ahm, Sosta and two other Scions approach with swift strides, kneeling by Salvor. “You see,” Ahm said to them, “he’s still holding on, but…”

  “We will do what we can,” Sosta said firmly. “Lend us your strength, Ahm.”

  “You can have mine too,” Sanych said, kneeling by Salvor’s shoulder. Geret felt particularly helpless as he watched the Scions work, blending their magic potential. Minutes passed. Everyone began to sweat with the effort they were expending.

  Even Rhona turned around to watch, bunching her fists together. Geret couldn’t make out the mix of emotions on her face.

  In the end, the healers did all they could for Salvor, but their skill was simply too weak to reverse all of the damage. They told Geret they weren’t sure Salvor would make it through the night. Geret nodded wordlessly, his eyes on Salvor’s still, pale face, scored with large red scars, and wondered where to find a book for Salvor to hold if he died.

  The healers left Sanych, Geret and Ahm at his side, moving on to others who needed their help. Ahm let his magic stretcher fade, placed a wool blanket over Salvor’s still form, then stepped away. Sanych began to weep. Geret held her close, letting his relief, loss, guilt, shame and exhaustion blend with hers.

  Ahm returned a while later, his hair still wild with sulfur and ash. “It’s done, Oathens. Shanal is free. The whole world is free. Our future is brighter, thanks to you, and to Jacasta.” He paused, raising his silvery eyebrows. “I think I might need to get a real job now.”

  Geret grinned, and Sanych hiccupped a laugh. He turned to her and said, “I guess we need to work on finding a way home soon.”

  Sanych looked over at Ahm, then back at him. “Actually, I’d like to stay.”

  “Stay in Shanal? F-for how long? Forever?” Geret’s old fear of losing Sanych to her magic leapt to the fore of his mind.

  “Not forever, Geret.” Sanych put a hand against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart. “You are my forever.”

  He pressed her hand against him with his own and lost himself in her blue, blue gaze. “Then it doesn’t matter to me where we stay.”

  Sanych raised her eyebrows. “What about your uncle?”

  Geret smiled down at her, tracing her cheek with a calloused finger.

  “What uncle?”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Three Years Later

  Sanych elTiera worked her knife against the carving she held. She sat on a marble bench beneath a flowering pink monandia, sunlight gleaming along the bright metal at her neck. The tree was finally blooming in season, now that the majority of Heren Garil Sa’s ash had washed out of the atmosphere. It was the warmest spring Vint had experienced in four years.

  Behind her, the newly-built Temple greenhouse housed a young and thriving crop of toothspice. Salvor’s gift to her had enabled the species to survive, even when the crops on its home island had been buried by ash and lava. The Silver Hand and the Iron Fist had sent volunteers from Salience who were working together to restore Ha’Hril to a habitable island that could once again support vast plantations. Soon the plants in the greenhouse could return home.

  A gentle breeze caressed her skin and teased the intricate knot of blonde hair that nestled at the nape of her neck. The smell of high spring was in the air. Bees, butterflies and beetles made their way among the blossoms, gorging themselves upon myriad nectary feasts. She inhaled the rich scents of sun-warmed earth, grasses, and flowers of many varieties. Their colors sparkled in the gardens around her, distracting her from the small carving she worked at.

  He was late.

  Thinking of him inevitably drew her mind back to Shanal. The surviving members of the quest had remained with the Scions for nearly a full season. Sanych grew more proficient with her light magic, even without Curzon’s helpful tutelage. Ahm, Sosta, and the other surviving cell leaders began working with the royal family in order to reverse the damage the cult had done to the people and the land, and Shanal emerged from its latest chapter of violence stronger and more stable.

  When she finally decided she was ready to return to Vint, she felt Geret’s relief. Despite his choice to stay by her side, he felt the pull of responsibility to his uncle and his country. Sanych felt it as well.

  Her final use of her magic was one she kept secret from the Scions: she blinked up to Curzon’s cave.

  “Hello, Curzon,” Sanych had said, startling him into dropping his teacup to the floor. She set a flat of stamp berries down on a low shelf. “Ahm would want you to have these.”

  He looked sharply at her. “My window is shut. How did you get in here?”

  Sanych smiled. “I’ve learned to project light ahead of me, then follow it. Sorry about the tiny hole in your wall.”

  Curzon laughed aloud. “I knew you were a clever one. So tell me: how did you figure out that I sent an avatar-twin back to the Dragon Temple with you?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t. You actually—copied—yourself?”

  The gnarled old man lifted his chin and smiled. “It wasn’t easy. No one else in Shanal could even grasp the concept, let alone achieve the result. I am, after all, the greatest spellcaster in th
e world.”

  “That, I’ll believe.”

  “How did you guess I still lived?”

  “That was easy; I’m surprised no one else thought of it. The anti-magic you infused into Ahm’s Tome-wrapping lasted nearly ‘til the book was destroyed, so you couldn’t have been killed fighting Oolat. I just wanted to tell you that I knew, and that I’ll keep my peace, so that you can enjoy yours. I’m leaving Shanal tomorrow.”

  The skinny hermit beetled his brows at her. “Well. Goodbye then.” He paused. “And thank you.”

  Sanych’s magic left her the following week, when their galleon sailed across the outer edge of the ancient caldera. It had been her constant companion for many weeks, and in the blink of an eye, it was gone. She stood on the deck of the ship, wrapped her arms around Geret and wept. He held her close as the winter winds whipped their cloaks about them. Kemsil, who accompanied them in the hope of finding Anjoya again, had worried Sanych would want to return to Shanal again, but Geret knew her inner heart.

  She was weeping in relief.

  Being a spellcaster had changed her. It made her feel wild and powerful. But in contrast, all the work she had ever done as an Archivist—the entirety of her past—paled into insignificance.

  In the end, she left because she began to yearn for the inner peace the quest had stolen from her. As long as she wielded the magic of light, she felt she’d be embracing the horrific deeds she had done and counting as insignificant the damage and death that had beset her friends.

  She did not want to be that woman any longer. She let Geret take her home.

  In Salience, Kemsil had learned that Anjoya had indeed accompanied Count Braal Runcan back to Vint. He continued eastward with his Vinten friends. They left behind a war-torn and much diminished House Aldib, which struggled to fight off the enraged Swordfish Clan and its erstwhile allies—which included House Jath. Rhona’s payback was still earning dividends, and Kemsil could claim a proper revenge at last.