Fiyera smirked, and I could not say a word to the contrary even if I cared to.
“From where I’m standing,” Soya said, voice finally starting to settle, though her conviction had not wavered, “we have two paths before us. One is the path of action – and yes, it could bring us ruin. But the path of inaction erases all doubt of it!”
Tense silence choked the room like smoke. After a moment, the Lord-Regent rose and placed a hand on his daughter’s back.
“My scion speaks with wisdom beyond her years,” he said, “and courage beyond all expectation. Are there any who would find fault in her words?”
No one spoke. How tremendous Soya was at that moment. Had it only been a season ago when we were getting drunk together and stargazing? When had she grown from my rough-and-tumble friend to a Lady-Regent of Andelan?
“Then it is so decided,” her father said. “In the absence of the Queen, I decree it in her stead: the Godspeakers will set their plan in motion. The rest of us leave at first light."
In theory, the mass exodus from Andwelum wasn’t to start until the next morning, but by the time I was escorted back to my main room in the inn not an hour after the end of the moot, I could already see several caravans lining up in preparation for departure. I could only imagine that for many it felt less like leaving and more like fleeing, and I found myself incapable of resentment. If it were me, I’d be fleeing, too.
I sat by my window for a time, wringing my aching wrists in their manacles, watching the bustle, wondering if I could sleep if I tried, wondering what tomorrow might bring, lost in the numbness of it all until there came a knock at the door.
I looked up, and before I could even gather the wherewithal to speak, it opened. A familiar head of long, red hair poked through.
“Sorry,” said Arana, Godspeaker to Lilline, smiling, but looking deeply tired, “is this a bad time?”
I didn’t answer, which turned out to not be a problem, because someone behind her did it for me:
“He’s effectively being held prisoner, Arana.” I recognized the voice as Fiyera’s. “I can’t imagine there would ever be a good time.”
The door opened wider. All four other Godspeakers came inside, one by one. I looked on in a clouded combination of confusion and fatigue – Arana, Fiyera, Rolen, and finally Greatmother Amira.
“Everyone’s leaving already,” Arana said, sitting down on the bed beside me. Rolen sat at the table, Fiyera stood by the window, and Greatmother Amira leaned against the wall nearest the door after it closed behind her. “They must be eager.”
“I suppose I can’t blame them,” said Fiyera as she peered out the window, “though it does make me wonder if they truly understand the scope of this. They flee Silas as though he’s the enemy, or as though any amount of distance from him could shield them from the Night Father’s wrath.”
“Please, Fiyera,” Greatmother Amira said coolly, “your optimism is embarrassing.”
Fiyera turned around. “Don’t expect me to apologize for the truth, Greatmother.”
“Let’s not think unkindly of them,” Rolen said. “They’re just scared. We’re all scared.”
“Which is why we need to talk about tomorrow,” the Greatmother returned. “So far as I’m aware, I’m the only person in this room who’s ever made any concerted effort to summon a god.”
“That was a rather unique circumstance, wasn’t it?” Arana asked.
Greatmother Amira shrugged. “This isn’t?”
That was a fair point, the room seemed to collectively decide.
“It’s not a Godspeaker’s natural purview to directly ask the gods to do anything, so I can’t imagine it ever would be anything but a unique circumstance.”
I looked between them. For a time, none of them said anything.
“So what will we be doing?” Fiyera asked. “Specifically. What did you do all those seasons ago?”
Greatmother Amira shifted her weight from foot to foot. Remembering seemed to make her uncomfortable.
“It was myself and several of my closest friends,” she said. “It was during the monsoon. We spent months praying to the distant light on the horizon for some respite.”
“So you just—” Arana paused, hunting for the word. “You just willed her to you through prayer?”
“It was closer to meditation,” the Greatmother admitted. “A circle of us, sitting on a rocky outcropping, heads bowed in concentration. We had spent so long on the inhospitable rock that was Onansu and morale was low. There were some who wanted to give up on the light on the horizon, but I urged them onward anyway, because there was nothing left but the hope of something better.
“And when she finally came…”
It wasn’t relevant, strictly speaking, but we all hung on her every word anyway. The parallel wasn’t lost on us.
“A great slice opened up in the clouds, and the sun came through,” she said slowly. “She was brightly burning, skin like dark copper, hair flowing like smoke in wind – the most ecstatically beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on. And when she landed on the rock, lush grass and meadow flowers rolled outward from her feet like ripples in water, spreading so quickly that the great rainforests were growing around us, towering trees and distant birdsong.
“And she came toward me, and the first thing she did was apologize.”
“Apologize?” Arana repeated, startled.
“There was a great deal more she said besides, but yes. She told us she hadn’t realized how careless she had been, spreading out all her children so far, even in places where there was no other life. That’s why she gave us the rainforests, why she bent down to give me the Benediction, a kiss that gave the Ansu the greatest gift she could give – courage, even in the face of terrible darkness.”
“The Worldmother’s Flame,” Rolen said, and Greatmother Amira nodded.
I swallowed thickly. Little pinpricks of emotion were seeping into me. That was what Perenor had been bringing out in the Avenos guard, and even in himself in his last moments alive. The Worldmother’s Flame, as strong as everything in him, that saved the city.
“Umbrion took her Light from us,” Fiyera said slowly. “Do you think he could take her Flame as well?”
The Greatmother hesitated. “I don’t know,” she admitted.
“I know that Aemor would never allow it,” Rolen said at once. “He was wrought from that Flame, and he loves it dearly.”
“How does the god of love spring from the flame of courage?” Arana asked, mostly to herself by the tone.
“There’s no greater act of courage than to love,” Rolen answered, smiling smally, “completely and selflessly.”
I thought of Perenor again, Perenor and his sacrifice, and for a moment I even thought of Umbrion. He had never known the Worldmother’s Flame. He was wrought of the shadow it cast. I wondered if it had made him lonely, if anyone had loved him. I wondered if I had. I think there’s still some part of me wondering that.
This silence was longer than the first, all of us falling into our thoughts until Arana spoke, voice small:
“Will this work?” she asked.
It was the question on all our minds, perhaps. No one said anything for a time.
“I don’t know,” Greatmother Amira answered after a moment. “But I don’t think the knowing is what’s important. What’s important is the trying.”
“And if it b-b-b-backfires?” I said. I was looking away, but I could feel their eyes on me. “W-w-will it have b-been worth it to t-t-t-try then?”
“Yes, Silas,” Greatmother Amira said. I’d expected her to sound cross, but she only sounded sad.
“This is f-f-f-folly,” I said. “If th-th-this curse has t-t-taught me anything, it’s th-th-that there is n-n-no reward for effort wh-wh-when you align y-y-yourself against the g-g-gods. This c-c-can do n-nothing but h-hasten the end.”
“Good,” said Greatmother Amira.
It hadn’t been the response I was expecting. I looked back at her. �
�Wh-wh-wh-wh—?”
“I said good,” she repeated. “I would rather that be the alternative outcome. Either end this apocalypse now or hasten it. What would you rather see, Silas? A long, protracted, bloody, and inevitably pointless war? It’s like your friend said – inaction may save us now, but not forever.”
I opened my mouth as if I wanted to speak, but no words came. I shut my mouth again a moment later.
“Greatmother, be kind,” Rolen said. “He’s been through much.”
“I know he has,” Greatmother Amira answered. “And that’s why I harbor no anger for him. Silas, if I’d been through what you’ve been through, I would spurn the mere idea of action, as well. But inaction isn’t a rejection of any outcome, it’s a submission to all of them.”
I tried – so, so hard, I tried – to make myself hear and believe the wisdom in her words, but after having everything around me crumble and break, it was the hardest thing in the world.
The floorboards creaked in front of me. I looked up from my lap and saw Greatmother Amira crouched in front of me.
“Do this knowing it could backfire. Do this knowing all the world could end because of it. Do this because despite what this world has done to you, you know it’s still worth saving. Do this because no one else can and because there’s no other way.”
Perhaps there was no wisdom in her words. Perhaps there didn’t need to be. Perhaps my injured, mourning heart had mistaken necessity for philosophy. I swallowed hard and nodded, resigning myself again to what felt like an inevitable chasm of doubt.
Greatmother Amira bent forward and kissed my forehead. I squinted back the threat of tears.
“We’ll leave the day after tomorrow,” she said, rising to her feet. “We’ll go to the temple outside Andwelum to avoid collateral damage, if it can be avoided.”
I could not imagine it would be. By the way the silence lingered, neither did anyone else.
Caravan by caravan, starting at the earliest hours of pre-dawn, the sleepy-little coastal down emptied. The caravan bound north for Stormhold left first, followed by the caravan bound south across the water, to Whiterock. The crowds thinned and the hum of people gave way to the hiss of rain.
“Your Grandmother went back with the Lord-Regent to Avenos,” Mother told me as we stood by the window and watched the last caravan leave, bound for Onanwa. It was likely the caravan Greatmother Amira would be going with, if she could go at all.
“Ever the p-p-p-p-politician,” I said under my breath.
“Don’t be unkind, Silas.”
I wanted to ask her why not, ask her why Grandmother deserved my kindness after everything, but I was too tired, too nervous. In less than a day, I and the other Godspeakers would be attempting a thing against all odds, and despite the likely doom it would bring down on us all. Being angry with my grandmother was not high on my list of priorities.
“But I’m staying,” Mother said after a moment, and I felt her hand on my back.
I looked over at her, startled. I thought she would just spend the last night before leaving in the morning. Despite my better judgment, I asked, “Wh-wh-wh-why?”
“Because I spent nine long, painful hours birthing you,” she answered. “Because I don’t think I ever dedicated enough time to being your mother. Because I love you.”
The words felt strange and foreign to me. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d ever heard them uttered to me with such sincerity and warmth. It set my heart to beating faster against my ribs, made y eyes burn.
“You sh-sh-sh-shouldn’t,” I said. “It’s n-n-not s-safe.”
“There’s nothing safe left,” she answered. She was trying to sound lighthearted, and it would have been funny, except that it was desperately grim.
“M-Mother—”
“You’re my boy,” she interjected, firmly by gently, “the only one I have left. I’m not leaving you, Silas. Especially not now.”
Even if I knew the words that would talk her out of it, I doubted my own ability to stammer through them without breaking down into tears.
“Besides, if any god is going to lay a hand on you,” she continued, smiling through suddenly mist eyes and stroking my hair, “they’ll have to go through me first.”
“D-d-d-don’t s-say that,” I muttered. “He w-would.”
She smiled weakly and sidestepped the comment.
“And your friend is staying, too,” she said. “Soya.”
That was far more surprising than hearing Mother was staying behind. I hadn’t spoken to her once since Perenor died “Sh-sh-sh-she is?”
“She must be,” Mother said. “I saw her watch as her father left on his own caravan. I’m sure she just wants to assure your safety.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her all that had changed between us, so I remained silent. Mother watched me, frowning, eyes sad.
Eventually, she sighed and kissed my temple. “I wish we had the time to get to know each other again,” she said, and I found myself settling against her shoulder. “Perhaps we can, after this is all over.”
“P-p-p-perhaps,” I lied, knowing that however this ended, my life would not be a part of it. I think she knew it, too, deep down.
So we watched the last caravan leave, watched the rain beat against the glass and tried, desperately and unsuccessfully, to think of other things.
I didn’t sleep that night. I felt as though I might never sleep again.
My mind was white-hot with questions without answers. Would this work? Would it make any difference either way? Did Umbrion already know?
Speculating, of course, achieved nothing, but I did it relentlessly anyway, until dawn came fighting its way through the clouds and one of the few functionaries who’d stayed behind with the Godspeakers came knocking on my door to wake me up.
I washed my face and was escorted down into the main room of the tavern. Apparently there was no longer any call to keep me sequestered to my room – after all, the city was all but empty. Rolen, Fiyera, Arana, and Greatmother Amira were all pulling on boots and gloves and waxed cloaks.
“Good morning, Silas,” Rolen said. “Did you sleep well?”
“No,” I answered, seeing little point in lying.
“Neither did I,” he returned with as much humor as he could manage.
“I suppose we’re skipping breakfast,” Arana said. She was braiding her long, red hair and knotting it into an elaborate bun at the back of her head.
“Why?” Fiyera asked. I could tell she was trying for glibness, but mostly she just sounded tired. “Hungry?”
“Not at all,” Arana answered with a sigh.
The conversation quickly dried up. I threw on a cloak – a much easier task since Greatmother Amira had managed to magic them off my wrists – and together we departed from the inn, a small team of nervous, jumpy functionaries keeping a wide distance behind us.
“Wh-wh-wh-where’s this t-t-temple?” I asked no one in particular.
“Further away, toward the coast,” Greatmother Amira answered. “Just an hour’s ride, I’m told.”
There were five bears waiting for under the hutch extending out from the tavern, freshly groomed, saddles polished. And maybe it was stupid, but somehow the prospect of riding one of those monstrous beasts was more immediately terrifying than the inevitable apocalypse.
“We must do what we can to ensure that Umbrion is the last to be summoned,” Fiyera said as she swung onto her camel. “At least that way, the balance of power will be favorable. More favorable.”
“But whatever you do,” Greatmother Amira said, and though she was speaking as though she was addressing everyone, she was looking right at me, “do not engage them. Once they’re summoned, if they’re summoned, let them to each other.”
I couldn’t imagine what it is they would say to each other, but I supposed I’d find out, one way or another.
The bulk of the ride east toward the coast was in silence. The monsoon was heavy and unforgiving, and the bear made for a str
ange and wobbly ride, and my waxed cloak felt like it was made of sheer linen for how dry it kept me. I did my best to fight away thoughts that I’d die looking like a drowned rat.
We rode for nearly two hours before I saw, poking up over the horizon, a small, nondescript, humble little temple. It was neither grand nor dedicated to any particular god – it was the temple of a small city like Andwelum, who did not have the resources to dedicate a temple to each god, but did the best they could with what they had. It was hewn of gray stone, with plain glass windows streaked with dirt and rain, standing on the edge of a cliff that overlooked the choppy, gray water.
“Leave the bears here,” said Fiyera, shouting over the ever-rising roar of the ocean. “We want them far enough away from any danger. We may need them for a quick escape.”
I’m sure most of us were thinking of what unlikely danger bears could save us from, but no one said anything.
The temple, for its part, was all but intact. Dusty and cold from disuse, but serviceable. As the rest of us shed our waxed cloaks and hung them on the hooks by the wooden door, Fiyera used an impressive, controlled burst of Craft to move all the rows of pews to the sides of the main chamber.
“Your friend Soya has followed us,” Rolen whispered to me as I pulled off my cloak.
I looked at him, then back through the window at which he was standing. I didn’t see anything at first, until I noticed several shadows standing a half-league away.
“The eye and ears of the Lord-Regent, no doubt,” Rolen said.
I stared through the window at the shifting smudges on the rainy backdrop. For one absurd moment, I wanted to go to her, to try and make up with her in whatever time I had left.
“And I think your mother might be with her, too,” he continued.
I certainly wouldn’t have put it past her.
“We must remember that the gods do not understand time the way we do,” Greatmother Amira said, moving toward the center of the emptied area. “We must be patient, willing to wait for them.”
“Patience,” Rolen said thoughtfully, “at the end of all things.”
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