Sigquaya

  As we walked, I tried my best to fill Arteura in on the last five years. She did the same. Her story seemed a lot more tragic than mine.

  We came to a clearing. The path we were on continued at the far side. Just beyond that, in the distance I could see another clearing. Arteura pointed to it eagerly.

  “That should be the crown of the Gildrom’s entrance just up there.”

  She took off at a fast jog through the clearing and into the pathway on the far side, disappearing quickly amongst the trees. It was all I could do to keep up.

  We made it to the second clearing, and Arteura looked around excitedly.

  “This is it!” she said.

  I recognized it too. The Gildrom. We were here. I was here. Again. I’d come full circle.

  She started down along a narrow walkway that led to a wide-open, well-trodden clearing, where I assumed the cave entrance would be. Suddenly she stopped.

  “Someone’s coming out,” she whispered, backing away to where I crouched.

  We ducked down as she peered out again. Then, she gasped. “Bless the Cyneþrymm, it’s Mother!”

  She sprang to her feet. “MO—”

  I yanked her back down forcibly. She wheeled on me, her fist at the ready.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed through clenched teeth.

  I held her gaze a long, impatient moment, breathing deeply. I couldn’t believe I was about to say this.

  “Don’t tell her,” I said.

  “What? Don’t tell her what?”

  “About me,” I said. “Don’t tell her.”

  “For all of the gods’ sake, why not? You’re alive, Tristan. My gods, she’s alive!”

  She stood again, and once more I yanked her back down. She ripped her arm away and growled, “Do that again with my arm and I swear you’ll lose yours!”

  “Please, Arteura.”

  “Tell me why,” she said, “and tell me quickly. They’re walking away.”

  Again, I fixed her with a deep, abiding look. “Will you be staying here, Arteura? Or would you come with us?”

  This bewildered her, and she searched the ground for an answer. “I-I hadn’t really thought about it,” she said. “I don’t know. Up until this very minute, I guess I thought that I would come with you. I mean, before seeing my mother, I didn’t think there was anything left for me here in Brynslæd. And even now I’m not sure. As far as I know, we’re still considered heretics here. Ma’wan. And the Rectors at the Mihtcarr. My gods, Tristan, I’m—we—are murderers. We would still have Marcus and the Þrymm guard to face.”

  “So, if you tell her who I am . . . what will she want?”

  Her eyes widened in understanding. “She would want you to stay. She would want all of us to stay.”

  “And given all that you’ve said, all of which is true, it stands to reason that it would only tear what’s left of our family apart.”

  Her head swiveled from me to our mother and back. “I have to see her, though. She has to know I’m okay.”

  “Go,” I said. “I will come too if you’d like.” I smiled a little in selfish embarrassment. “I would like to see my mother again.” Then, my smile turned serious. “But she can’t know who I am, Arteura. Please?”

  She thought a moment, blew out a ragged breath, and nodded. “Agreed. Now, let’s go.”

  “MOTHER! MOTHER!!”

  Rhiana turned, gasped, and clutched the woman she was with, then took off at a run toward Arteura. I recognized the other woman as our grandmother, Amelia; she looked older and yet somehow vibrant and more full of life than I had ever seen her.

  Arteura and our mother met halfway, falling into an embrace and crumbling to their knees in soft kisses and tears.

  Arteura filled her in on all that had happened to her, up to and then skipping over our encounter with the Rectors. The whole city would likely find out about that soon enough.

  Rhiana filled her daughter in as well, leaving nothing out.

  “Your father—oh, he was so brave. He tried—” Her voice broke, and she crushed Arteura into another firm hug. “I’m so sorry, Arteura. Your father is dead,” she said through a shaking voice. “The Elder, he . . .”

  She bit her lip and shook her head, unable to finish. I staggered at the news, then caught myself and crouched beside Arteura. Rhiana looked at me quizzically, sniffling and wiping her red-rimmed eyes as she asked, “Who is this, Arteura?”

  “This,” she said, grasping my hand and communicating with her eyes the deep sadness she felt for me as well, “is my friend Caden. He helped me escape. He’s been helping me with a lot of things, Mother. I feel like I’ve . . . known him forever.”

  Rhiana smiled.

  “Caden,” Amelia said, stepping up and offering her hand. It was cool and light to the touch.

  As we clasped hands, her demeanor shifted, just a touch, and she gently pulled me to my feet and away from the other two.

  “Let’s give them a moment, shall we?” she said. “Tell me about yourself.”

  I could only stammer as we walked away.

  When we were a short distance from the others, she turned to me, her eyes still soft but serious. “You wield Tamatulc,” she said without accusation. “I can feel it.”

  She rocked me further as she caressed my face, her smile deepening, shaking her head in wonder. “You look like him.”

  I cocked my head. “Who would that be, ma’am?”

  “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me.” She chuckled. “We are family. And you look like your father, Remè.”

  I was glad that our hands were still clasped, or I would have fallen over backward. “How did you—” I stammered. “How do you know?”

  “Sigquaya has many powers, Tristan,” she said. “Recognition and familiarity with its surroundings, with its flora and fauna, and with its like, to name just a few. It knows you. Even though you have the gift of Tamatulc, you are still among its family.”

  A million questions swirled in my mind.

  “Besides,” she said with a sly grin, “you do look like him.”

  “Does my mother know?”

  Amelia shook her head. “She is grieving. On many levels, and through many things. She thinks you dead, and that has settled the matter. Her thoughts are on too many other tragedies to resurrect the past just yet.”

  “But you had no . . . hesitation. You recognized me instantly.”

  Her smile returned. “I have had my share of tragedies, my grandson, some just recently. But my mind is clear enough, and Sigquaya assured enough, to recognize my own blood and my own kind.”

  “But that brings up something else,” I said. “If you, I mean, this side of my family, has this magic of Sigquaya, how is it that I wield . . . Tamatulc?”

  “Simple. It chose you,” she said. “That’s what gifts do.”

  “Did my father—”

  “No. You are the first of our family on either side to wield Tamatulc.” Then she grasped my hands firmly. “Wield it well, my grandson.” She looked back to her daughter and granddaughter. “And you are wise not to tell them.”

  “Arteura knows,” I confessed.

  Amelia nodded. “You will be leaving,” she said, “and she will be going with you, no?”

  “She will, I believe.”

  “That too is wise,” she said. “There is a peace coming to the Empire, but there are dark days to go through first.” She gazed off to her daughter, who was happily in conversation with Arteura and smiled broadly at us.

  “Rhiana and I will weather those days,” Amelia continued. “I feel we will be leaving as well, to my home country. She has family there that she has no idea of. But they know of her, and already they love her very much. She will see, and she will be home.”

  Amelia turned back to me. “But Arteura? She must prepare.”

  I blanched. “Prepare for what?”

  “She yet has a role to play, my grandson. But her time is not yet come.” She patted my hand. “Teach each other well, Tristan.
You are going to have a role to play as well.”

  Arteura and Rhiana appeared beside us.

  “What are you two talking about?” Rhiana asked, still sniffling.

  Arteura’s eyes too were red-rimmed and moist. Her smile was sad but stoic, which was becoming the true legacy of our family.

  “Old times,” Amelia said easily. “Old times and times yet to come.”

  “Arteura says there may still be trouble for her in Brynslæd. With the Temple, and with Marcus,” Rhiana said. “She also says she would be going with you and some other friends of yours.” She stopped and looked at me oddly. “Gods, you look familiar,” she said. “Do I know you?”

  “I was saying the same thing,” Amelia said. “His family is from the same old country as my own. I believe that is what we recognize: kinship from a great distance.”

  Rhiana was still examining me. “Hmm, that must be it. But still . . .” Then, she shook her head. “You’re right. But anyway, about your travels: Where will you be going?”

  “I’m not sure,” I lied. “Like Grand—like Amelia says, our home is far away. We will eventually head back there, I would assume.”

  “Will you return?”

  I looked at Arteura, and she nodded once.

  “Of course.” I smiled.

  Rhiana looked at me oddly once again. “Gods, you do look familiar.”

  “I get that a lot,” I lied. Again.

  Rhiana turned to her daughter. “Can I at least fix you all a meal?”

  Arteura smiled bravely. “We can’t, Mother. I don’t dare risk it. Even for one meal.”

  Rhiana nodded. “I understand,” she said sadly.

  They hugged, long and tight, as if pressing the last bits of love into each other for the coming distance they would have to endure.

  Amelia grasped my hand again and squeezed, smiling at me in reassurance.

  Then, Rhiana hugged me as well.

  “Good luck to you,” she said. “And please take care of my daughter.”

  “From what I’ve witnessed,” I said into her shoulder, “she will likely be taking much more care of me.”

  Rhiana laughed and let me go. She nodded and then, arm in arm with her mother, they walked away down the wide path toward Brynslæd. Leaving the two of us alone.

  When I turned to Arteura, her cheeks were streaked with silent tears. I held out a hand to her and she stepped into my arms, hugging me with almost as much ferocity as she had her mother.

  “I hope we made the right decision,” she said.

  “We did,” I said.

  She pulled herself apart from me and looked to the Gildrom’s entrance—a dark and open maw, swallowing so much pain and fear for so many families for so many years.

  She shot out a deep breath and looked back at me. “I have an idea,” she said. “It came to me as I was talking to Mother.”

  I looked at her in question.

  “I think we can still put a stop to these ceremonies,” she said. “Maybe once and for all.”

  “How?”

  She nodded, willing herself into the idea. “Come with me.”

  Instead of going into the Gildrom, we started to climb back up the narrow path we’d descended from above the entrance. We were a good ways up when Arteura stopped, turned, and knelt, feeling the ground as if looking for a lost coin.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Searching,” she said. “And calling.”

  “Huh?”

  She looked at me with a half-cocked grin. That was the sister I remembered from my youth. She was up to something. And she wanted my help to pull it off. I’d seen that look before; it had gotten us into a lot of fun—and into a lot of trouble.

  “You can manipulate fire,” she said. “And I can influence water.”

  I waited for her to go on, but she just looked at me.

  “And?” I finally said.

  “Well,” she drawled, her look clearly saying that I was daft. “Put them together. What do they make?”

  A dim light began to shine. Was she thinking what I was afraid she was thinking?

  “Steam.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, what are you doing? What are we doing? How is this going to stop the ceremonies?”

  “I told you,” she said patiently. “I’m calling.”

  “Calling wha—wait! Are you trying to bring up water?”

  “Mm-hmm. And it’s working, I can feel it. Get ready.”

  “Get ready for what?”

  “Put your hand here, beside mine.”

  I knelt beside her and did what she asked.

  “Do you feel it?”

  I concentrated and then felt it, a low rumble, just like we’d felt in the caves of the Waters just before—

  “Now!” she said. “Think fire. Massive, searing fire. Huge flames. NOW!”

  I didn’t think. I just brought it forth. Down through my hand, through the packed earth, into the crevasses underground where the water Arteura had called rushed up.

  Fire. Meeting water.

  BOOM!!

  We were thrown back as the earth ruptured around us. Geysers of steam shot from holes surrounding us, shooting fifty feet in the air and more. Then the dirt at our feet collapsed and we clambered back. The entire front of the Gildrom, its entrance and the whole mound of rocks surrounding it, fell with a mighty roar, rolling and tumbling, dust flying, rocks crashing, steam rolling, and water raining down.

  We scrambled to our feet, turned, and ran toward higher ground.

  When we finally stopped to look back, half of the hillside where the Gildrom’s entrance once stood . . . was gone. Dust clouds were still rolling as water trickled between crevasses, and tiny droplets of condensed steam fell across the scene.

  As the earth settled, we made a wide swath around the loose hillside, through the trees and brambles of Dunwielm, until we were on the wide clearing where Arteura had met up with her mother and Amelia. The Gildrom was gone.

  “What the hell have you two done?!”

  We jumped and whirled at the loud voice behind us.

  It was Marshaan, along with Rahn and Telluras, all astonished at the scene before them.

  “We put an end to the sacrifices,” I said. “Even more so than we’d originally hoped, I think.”

  “You think?” he said. “How did you do it? We had no sulfur for explosives.”

  “We need to get out of here,” I said, dodging his question. I turned to my sister. “All of us. We can explain it on the way.”

  “You’d better,” he warned. “And it better be damned good.”

  “It is,” I answered. “Trust me.”

  “Where are we going?” Rahn asked.

  I shrugged. “Back to the Mihtcarr?”

  “To the Waters?” Rahn moaned. “Gods, do we have to?”

  “No,” Arteura answered, and the rest of us wheeled on her, brows raised. “We don’t,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “How so?” Marshaan asked. “Where do we go?”

  “Oh, we go to the Mihtcarr,” she said. “But think about it. There isn’t just one entrance there.”

  I smiled. “There are three.”

  She nodded.

  “That sounds like one of the dumbest ideas I’ve heard,” Marshaan grumbled. “A two-thirds chance at being lost or cornered.”

  “You have a better one?” I asked.

  “Nope,” he answered. And, from a distance, we could hear the approach of booted footsteps. Þrymm guards and Rectors, most likely. On the run.

  At that, he rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Nope,” he repeated. “But it sounds better than theirs. Let’s go.”

  It felt like a scab being ripped away. Brynewielm roared in pain and fury, igniting his obsidian home in flames. He’d just felt a part of his mountain home collapsing at the hands of an ancient magic, what once had been dragonkin magic, his magic. Sigquaya. Tamatulc. Others had called it Ma’wan—a profane heresy. All were names given to
the ancient magic by the two-legged roaches. All were correct. But even then, this magic was much more ancient than either its naming or of those who possessed it. And, it was much more powerful than they could even imagine. This power could tear down mountains, and raise them up. It could empty seas, and fill them again. It could shake the foundations of the earth, and build cities and towers. It could rain down hell, and call up gods.

  HE would show them. The God of Fire. The founder of Legends.

  Brynewielm would show them all.

  He would show them true power, strength, and destruction. The mighty dragon moved toward the passage, toward the surface beyond.

  Brynewielm was awake. He was wounded. And he was pissed off.

  Epilogue

  Daina gritted her teeth as she neared the edge of the creek that circled Cierra’s garden areas and fed the irrigation canals. It was early morning, crisp and dry, and she was alone. She wanted no one else to know her struggle or to see her fear, though admittedly it was a poorly kept secret.

  She was here because she never wanted it to happen again: never wanted to lose another sacrifice; never wanted to lose another friend; never wanted to see anyone with the look on their face like Marshaan or Rahn as they were sucked into the Waters and pulled downstream. Caden had gone after them, of course, and now she was alone, helpless to do anything but wait and fret.

  Helpless.

  It.

  It was a feeling she never expected to have, never thought she would feel.

  They should be here—Caden, Marshaan, and the others. Her family. Her friends. Her support. She should have done what Caden had done: not hesitate. Dive in with bravery and purpose. Find and save the others. But that would have meant getting into the Waters. And that would have meant overcoming her fear.

  Instead, she hadn’t overcome. She had hesitated—standing uselessly along the river’s edge, pacing and crying, even after Caden had gone.

  Hesitation. Regret. “Could haves” and “should haves.”

  Just more its.