The Rising Tide

by Sarah Stirling

  “Kilai! You’re alive!”

  She held her hands out in case Makku tried to do something like hug her. But she couldn’t deny her relief at the sight of them. “Do you know if any of the others made it?”

  Makku’s bright eyes dimmed, shoulders dropping. “Not that I could see.”

  Jorkell shook her head. Across her cheek a nasty gash was stained with crusted blood. Apparently they hadn’t made it through the storm unscathed.

  “Anyone want to catch me up here?” said Ivor, still glaring at her shipmates.

  Kilai sighed. “Ivor, meet Makku and Jorkell, of the Zephyr. You two, meet Ivor. He’s a real cheery fellow.”

  Makku squinted at him. “Yeah, I’m getting that.”

  “We should probably try and figure out where we are. If there’s more of us that’s better for –”

  “Hey, look. It’s another one of those rocks.”

  About to snap from her exhaustion, Kilai turned and saw that what she had initially assumed to be an ordinary rock was another of those that had been carved to look like a face, long tusks peeking out of a curving mouth. With its hollow caves for eyes, deep pools of darkness against the sunlight spilling from a crack in the carpet of trees, it looked strange and demonic, like it could get up at any moment and start walking. After all she had seen that didn’t seem too out of the realm of possibility.

  “What are these even for?” she said.

  Makku gazed up at it, a curious tilt to his head. “They’re really old. I think the tribes that used to live out in the jungle would carve them in honour of their gods. They look more like riftspawn, if you ask me.”

  Kilai was inclined to agree. “We should try to find shelter,” she said, tearing her eyes away from it to keep walking. “Who knows how far we are from civilisation.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be the problem.” Makku held up a piece of cloth that had been stuck to a stray branch, the fabric the distinctive shade of indigo of the Sonlin military’s coats.

  Kilai took a few quick steps so she could grab Ivor’s arm. “Don’t say anything,” she murmured. When his eyes flickered down to hers in confusion she gave him a stern glare and shook her head. It wouldn’t do to divide their little band. Not when survival was the most imminent need.

  “Why are there bluecoats out here?” said Jorkell.

  “I don’t know. But I reckon we can’t be too far from people if this is here.”

  “Why would they be traipsing through the jungle?” Her head turned to Makku but her eyes swivelled to Ivor.

  Ivor mouthed, What?

  At the same time Makku pulled back a branch that she wasn’t prepared for and it whipped across her arm. Hissing, she rubbed at the hot skin, inspecting it through the rip in her shirt to ensure it wasn’t bleeding.

  Makku snickered. “Look where you’re –”

  He yelped as Jorkell grabbed him, one hand slapping over his mouth and the other wrapped around his waist. “What are you doing?” he bit out when she loosened her hold, wriggling in her grasp.

  Jorkell cupped her ear and pointed ahead of them. Sure enough, when she stopped to listen Kilai could hear voices, chattering in High Sonlin. Although there was a smattering of dialect through their accents, she could understand most of what was said. Her eyes found Ivor again, a pained expression twisting his mouth. She tried to catch his attention but he kept his gaze straight ahead. It was too rigid, the posture of his entire body so tense that she thought he was avoiding her look on purpose.

  “… better get back, before we’re caught.”

  “Just another minute,” said the woman’s voice with a sigh. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but I think I’ll actually miss this godforsaken island.”

  The man laughed, light and breezy. She caught a flash of his coat through the trees. “You say that like we’ll ever get off this godforsaken island.”

  Their voices drifted off, leaving them all frozen as they waited for someone to make a move. Kilai met each of their eyes in turn, noting the hesitance in each of their gazes. Figuring they were in the clear if the voices were gone, she pushed through the undergrowth, shouldering past branches until she stood where they had been. Footprints stamped into the moist earth left a trail to wherever the soldiers had gone. She pointed to the trails. “I think we just found our way to civilisation.”

  Ivor grimaced, a flash of teeth stark against the red of his beard. “I don’t know.” He hooked a thumb behind him. “Think I fancy my chances with the sea more.”

  Makku clapped a hand on his shoulder, loud enough to ring out over the music of the jungle. “Come on, big man,” he said, having to look up to meet Ivor’s eyes, “no one likes a coward.”

  “You say that like it’ll inspire me to stupidity. But I’m not that half-witted.”

  “Maybe not,” said Kilai, patting him on his other shoulder. “But what you are is outnumbered.” And if she was walking into the lion’s den, she wanted to do it with a lion by her side.

  Ivor exhaled a deep a sigh, slumping over as if all of the air had been sucked out of him. “You’re just as bad as Lakazar.”

  Kilai did not know what to make of that comment so she withdrew her hand and laughed. “Please,” she said. “I can make you wish I was Janus.”

  Ivor responded with a glare.

  *

  Sometimes it felt like it was only through anger or fear that he could reach the phoenix. The instinctive panic at being spotted by someone who recognised him had fired up that age old connection, his consciousness sifting through memories across lifetimes for the skills he might need to survive. All of a sudden the clouds had soured and blackened, rolling in on a heavy wind that tasted of the ocean. It hadn’t taken long for the clouds to break and pour the onslaught down upon the city, leaving Vallnor trapped in his hiding place, in a shelter made of red trees that grew around a lattice to create a tunnel of blazing red foliage. Rain dripped down from the leaves, landing on his neck and rolling beneath his shirt, a shudder running down his spine. A being of fire couldn’t help but hate the water.

  As voices broke the crashing of the rain, Vallnor tucked himself between the gnarled black trunks, peeking out to try and see past the haze. Thundering against the water in the canal, the downpour shook and sloshed the water, spilling out across the edges and running through the street. The few people who had been caught out ran for shelter, shrieking and laughing at the sudden turn in the weather. Without substantial shelter, Vallnor soon found himself soaked through and shivering. How utterly pathetic for a prince, to be hiding from both the weather and the snivelling usurpers who thought they could claim his island. He had half a mind to march right back and show them how wrong they were.

  The part of him that was still Viktor cringed at the thought of it and that was enough to rile him up. Vallnor was not Viktor. Vallnor had come first. He had no loyalty towards some scrappy street rat whose body was much better served in Vallnor’s more capable hands. This way his face might be remembered one day, immortalised by a master painter for generations on to see. For Vallnor to one day see, many centuries in the future. Because Vallnor could not die. He was a god and gods did not cower before mere mortals.

  You and I have a little reconciling to do, old friend.

  Somewhere deep within he could feel the phoenix stir, a warmth building in his chest. Vallnor smiled. “Yes, you feel it too, don’t you? The need to stretch your wings. How long has it been, truly?”

  A burst of flame illuminated the bleak grey haze with a bright spark of green, the fire keeping the worst of the chill at bay. Letting the rush of the connection seep into him, Vallnor closed his eyes and remembered what it had been like, back when people recognised his power for what it was. Back before they had all been torn asunder with false gods and false institutions and false rulers. Back before a ship in a storm had sank below the waves, where even a king of flame could not save him. Back before the name Vallnor Siklo had stopped meaning something.

  But
inviting in memories did not control which memories he received. Some days he awoke with a mind like sand stirred in the sea, unsure whose consciousness would settle within him on that particular morning. He could remember things he had never experienced; the thick haze of smoke in the tavern; sunset from the rooftops with a city sprawling away to a golden ocean and a familiar voice rumbling in his ear; feeding a scrappy cat too much like himself he just couldn’t leave it to starve; squatting in squalid shacks as the rain battered down the way it did now, teeth clacking all through the night. There were snippets of other minds, of course, but none of them left as deep an imprint as Viktor.

  The more Vallnor came to know this Viktor who thought he could defy him, the more his disdain grew. Because Viktor was a coward. His way was to run and hide, rather than to fight. All he had known was theft of petty baubles; small scraps of coin and trinkets. There was no prince in him. No king. Nothing for Vallnor to salvage to help him on his planned ascension. No, the only good use for Viktor’s memories was to bury them deep within the pool of his own rage, to be worn away by a much stronger mind. The mind of a true king.

  With the fire rushing through his veins the chill faded away, leaving Vallnor smouldering with the energy inside him. Savouring it like a fine wine, he sipped at the delicious taste of power, enjoying the swirling shades of green and blue as the fire bloomed in his palm. All around him the world sparked and flared, humming with lines of power that connected every living creature, of this realm and beyond. Some of those creatures gathered around him, drawn to the phoenix fire like a beacon. Each swirling, colourful shape sang with a unique song, a cacophony of instruments bursting in his ears. Snapping his fingers, he called them to heel. They did as bid, heeding their king. Deep beneath it all, the phoenix thirsted for power.

  “I reckon we should all play our good friends another visit, hm?”

  Parties were all well and good. Fyera could have her parties. But what good was a party going to do, when those snivelling usurpers still reigned over his island? The best way to show that they were back, well and truly back, was to demonstrate it.

  Viktor had sneaked into the city hall but Vallnor would do no such thing. Instead, he sauntered through the Onyx Plaza, up the stone steps, past the pillars, and through the main entrance. Hands hidden in his pockets, he paid no mind to the soldiers standing by the reception hall and the easiness of his posture nearly saw him through. But one of the soldiers frowned and tilted his head, before stepping forward.

  “Excuse me, Sir, but what is the meaning of your business today?”

  Vallnor cracked his neck and fixed his gaze upon the poor soldier. “I have an urgent appointment with the mayor, it would seem.”

  His frown deepened. “The mayor is in council at the moment. If you wish to –”

  Vallnor clapped his hands together, sparking up green flame. He grinned as both soldiers’ eyes widened at once, grips reaching for their belts, for their weapons, but they never got the chance. “That will be unnecessary.” Then spooling out the thread of energy that connected him to the phoenix, he thrust the fire towards them in one burst. Pouring into their mouths, they didn’t even get a chance to scream before smoke rose from their singed, bubbling flesh. Turning as they fell, he did not wait to see the effects of his sentence. They had tried to stop him and so they had to die.

  Vallnor did not consider himself a needlessly cruel man but sometimes a message had to be sent. People had to know the Siklos had returned once more. From betrayal, from death. They were ready to rise once more.

  He felt the thump of their bodies hitting the floor echo in his mind and smiled in satisfaction. Yes, let the people talk. Spread the word. If Fyera was concerned about faith – that people would not believe the truth of them – then he would simply have to show them that miracles existed. That a god could not be killed as a man could. The Myrish had been oversaturated with too many false gods since their departure but once they saw their rightful monarchs once more, they would learn the value of worship again.

  His boots echoed against the marble floor, sheened to such perfection he swore he could see his reflection in the pastel clouds. Two green coins shone from the foreign cut of his jaw, the nose not quite straight, perhaps broken in youth. It was almost enough to trigger the phoenix’s bank of memories; almost enough to have him tumbling off the edge of his high, back into the abyss of his consciousness. But Vallnor’s iron grip remained. He could not be thrown so easily.

  Above the rain continued to lash down, battering the roof over his head. From the windows he could see nothing but a deepening sky, blue bleeding into indigo, and the constant waterfall from the heavens as if the world was weeping what it had become in his absence. Muffled voices drifted from inside the chambers, too faint to be little more than a whisper through the huge wooden doors. The doors had been carved into figures, caricature faces of riftspawn, warped out of proportion to look strange and terrible. The handles were cut into two half moons.

  He ran his finger over the delicate cut, admiring, before the feeling soured. Here this mayor stood, claiming to be but a humble one of the people, when he worked in such luxury and decadence. He was no different from any of them, pretending to be one thing when he was really another. Seeping into his ire, Vallnor let the feeling simmer, flames dancing along his skin and tickling him with the power building and building within him. Connected to the rift – to all the rifts all around the world – he could feel the point where they all connected back to him, as if he were at the very centre of everything. Perhaps he was. The riftspawn following him certainly thought so.

  Throwing the doors wide, Vallnor grinned as a whole room of heads turned to face him, varying shades of annoyance, curiosity and confusion upon the brows of the men and women who sat around the circular chambers as if they were the Knights of Dankarth. As if they could ever hope to emanate the heroes of a tale as old as time, about the strongest in the land who volunteered to protect the realm from evil. Such arrogance. Well, Vallnor would show them true arrogance.

  Slowly, carefully, he closed the doors behind him and turned to rake his gaze over their faces. Across the room Sandson watched him with his mouth parted. General Nevi surged to her feet, dark cropped hair severe around a square face, a fire burning in her dark eyes.

  But what good was natural fire against phoenix fire?

  “Who are you to disturb us here?” Even here, in the council chambers, she was the one to speak first.

  “Do you really not know, Nevi-all? Perhaps I ought to show you, hm?” Brandishing his palm, fire burst out in one bright spark, the nearest councillors flinching away from him. “You know me now, don’t you? I see it in your eyes.”

  “Siklo,” she spat, one eye narrowing. Her hand dipped to the pistol at her hip.

  Finally, Sandson stood. “It does you no good to be here. You know that.”

  “Oh? Do I now?”

  Like sucking in air, Vallnor tugged on the threads of spiritual energy connecting him to the riftspawn all around, drawing them in towards him. Gasps of breath chorused through the room. Vallnor could only imagine how he looked, wreathed in spirits with flickering flame dancing upon the surface of his skin, eyes shining a bright and brilliant green. Really, he should have the painters capture this instead of those boring portraits of him on a stool. This would make a much more dynamic piece.

  Nevi was not one to sit around and wait for Vallnor to play his hand. In a flash she had pulled out her gun and drawn, the thunderclap echoing inside the chamber. A puff of smoke wafted from the muzzle, the acute pain feeding up his side as the bullet found its mark. The energy in him flickered for a moment before he snatched it back to him, gathering it up tight around himself as his anger crested its peak, stripping the world down to nothing but him, his rage, and his targets. Sweat broke across his brow as he recalled the flame, ignoring the lead weight buried in his gut. He would have to get it out quickly, or the phoenix’s natural regeneration powers would heal over it and seal it i
nside him. But the phoenix was furious. It wanted payment in blood.

  Sandson stood, shaking his head. For the first time he looked worried, brows furrowed together. But the mayor had not made an enemy of him. Yet.

  “I suppose it was about time I announced my return. It’s a shame not many of you will get to see the reign of my sister and I. I promise it will be quite spectacular.” The blood seeped into his shirt, sticky and warm. His vision spun for a moment and he grunted, righting himself. “I’d hoped to make this all a bit grander but I’m afraid Nevi-all has cut our time too short.”

  Footsteps echoed outside, punctuated by voices. Every sound amplified when he channelled this much power, heightened by his bond to the phoenix. The fallen soldiers had been discovered, it seemed, and he doubted Nevi’s gunshot had gone unnoticed. That was fine. Vallnor himself did not have to be the one to spread the message. In fact, it was better if it came from others. It gave the whole thing more weight. Perhaps he should have invited the press for credibility.

  “How is this possible?” murmured one of the councillors. “How on earth can he be a prince from centuries ago?”

  Vallnor smirked, eyes drawn to the old man, who shrank back under his gaze. “Why don’t I show you, hm?” Raising a hand into the air, he could feel the room draw its breath in anticipation, spellbound by his presence. The blood continued to spill but he could not focus on healing until he was finished here. So he honed in on his connection to the phoenix, letting the raw spiritual fire coarse through him. Consuming him. The riftspawn danced to his tune like puppets on strings.

  When his power reached its peak he thrust his arm forwards, propelling the riftspawn outwards, towards the gathered councillors and politicians of the city, the loss of so much energy at once enough to make his knees buckle, sagging against the desk before him. The room blurred, the screams and shrieks running around his head and mashing into one shrill whistle. Fingers digging into the wood, Vallnor focused on the grain against his fingertips to ground himself. Lights flashed as riftspawn stole into their bodies, the swelling of energy in the room enough to disorient him.