by L. Penelope
And so you went to them.
You traveled to the east of what was then the whole of your land. There you met those who were leaving, the pale-eyed Folk unused to light and fresh air who were tired of life underground. They had been leaving in droves since your grandparents first arrived in this land from some dying world. Your father, aunts, and uncles had found spouses among these former Cavefolk.
After leaving the protection of the Mountain Mother, the Folk became known as the Silent. They had no inborn Songs, though their children who had been conceived with Earthsingers might.
Your mother had taught you some simple blood spells remembered from her childhood, and you longed for more. Blood magic was power in its own right. And there were whispers that it rivaled Earthsong.
So you sought it out. Made the journey with nothing but faith to guide you, that and the lessons of your mother. Never take that which the mountain does not want to give. Always treat the Mother with respect.
At the mouth of a cave, high in the mountain you met a man. He was old then, his skin translucent in the flickering light of your lantern. “Why have you come here?” he asked, blocking your way.
“I came to visit my mother’s people.”
“You are not one of us.”
“Can I not be?”
He’d grunted and turned and you’d followed him deep into the cave city. In a little-used, out of the way chamber, he fed you and bid you to leave.
“Teach me,” you begged. Back when you would stoop to such a thing. But he did not budge. “Teach me, for one day soon there will be no one left to teach.”
The truth of your statement shone in his eyes. Though the city still lived, it was already beginning to die as more and more chose to leave. In two, maybe three generations, if the current exodus continued, it would be a town of ghosts.
“What is it you wish to learn?” the old man said after a while.
“Everything.”
From the shaman, you learned how to remove a Song from a Singer, how to fashion calderas from blood and words and intent. You absorbed blood magic’s possibilities, its drawbacks and limitations.
Clarity greets you now when you awaken from this memory-dream. You have not thought of that old man in centuries. You have forgotten the source of your education, the reason you were able to take power. So odd. But even now as the knowledge afforded by the memory swells in your mind, trepidation fills at skirting so close to the past.
Never take a retrograde step.
Only the future is real. What does it matter when and where you learned this? Why it was taught to you? It was better to have forgotten.
When you left that place, all those years ago, you asked why he deigned to teach so much.
“Many years ago, I had a vision,” he said, “a prophecy of a war that cannot be avoided. And shortly before you arrived, I had another one.” Pale eyes pierced him with blades of scrutiny. “‘The one who walks in the Dark will embrace the Light.’”
You’d grown indignant. “Is that supposed to be me? Walking through these dark caves? I don’t believe in prophecies.”
“Darkness surrounds you, but a turning point lies ahead. The tools I have provided, they can save us all … or doom us,” he murmured. “It is the only gamble I have to play.”
You shake off the words from long ago and recall instead the spell to open the portal. You can now picture its shape and architecture, the way it was put together.
You can see the flaws.
Blood magic is different than inborn Songs. It requires intention and material. Not just blood, but something to hold it. Something around which to create the caldera—the container for the magic.
If a spell went awry, it was usually either the material or the intent behind the incantation that was wrong. Different words, synonyms with different emphasis behind them, could lead to many different results.
Inspiration strikes. You rush out to find the guards at your doors. “Take me to Nikora’s study. I need writing materials.”
They look at one another and at first you are not sure they will comply, but then they lead you with maddeningly plodding steps through the castle.
You burst into the study, surprising Cayro and Nikora. “Paper, pen! I think I know what’s wrong with the spell.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the spell,” Nikora cries and you shoot her an icy glare. She goes silent, pushing her nose into the air before waving at the sideboard, where a box of paper is stored next to the dwindling pile of amalgamations.
You began to write furiously, pouring out the memories that have returned. Synonyms of terms, other ways of constructing the spells, the knowledge of a people lost to time. Lost to their own traditions. Swallowed up by a new people who replaced them.
You may be the last connection to them. This may be their last work.
You ignore all else as you write, certain that you have found your way back to power.
You would thank the old man if you could, if he was somehow still alive, but though your memory of him has returned, you cannot remember his name.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Become your own master.
Bow not to another.
You are a proficient bearer of
your own destiny.
—THE HARMONY OF BEING
Murmur’s voice droned in Kyara’s head as he gave instructions on ways to tweak her performance. She was having a hard time focusing, since the Breath Father’s words from the day before were still reverberating inside her skull. The vision he’d showed her replayed in her mind over and over again, destroying her ability to concentrate.
Ahlini’s smiling face, the ulla’s stricken one, the kindness of the guard. Why hadn’t she remembered any of that before? Why were only the worst things etched forever in her memory—the pain and trauma, the abuse, the killing?
She made a promise to herself to hold close the positive experiences she’d had and try and use them to overwhelm all of the suffering. An intense longing for Darvyn swelled and she had that to wade through as well in order to get back to the present moment.
Tana’s squeal of delight brought her back. Kyara blinked the haze away from her eyes to witness the girl’s triumph. She had moved on from attacking static trees to hitting moving targets. Smoky creatures, similar to the wraith spirits, flew in swirls and spirals at the other end of the cavern. Tana’s dragon avatar breathed purple fire into the mass of writhing forms, singeing them into nonexistence.
When all her targets were gone, the dragon retreated and the girl clapped her hands. True joy shone on her face and it nearly brought a tear to Kyara’s eye. Tana deserved her happiness, and her growing skill was impressive.
Every evening, they would return aboveground to Darvyn’s camp where he would be helping Ulani master her Song. The little puppy Fenix had manifested from pure Earthsong was still there. Ulani had named him Raven. The girls would chatter and play while the adults looked on. Watching the children both warmed Kyara’s heart and saddened her.
There would be no children in her and Darvyn’s future—at least not ones with his smile. All of the ul-nedrim and ol-nedrim, the harem-born children of the True Father, were sterile. She’d never thought much about it before gaining her freedom, and tried not to focus on it now as there was nothing she could do. Part of her was glad that the True Father’s vile seed could not be spread any further. And though the moniker the king had appropriated belied it, Kyara never had a father, had never really missed one. That Darvyn may not get the chance to be one was the most distressing.
Still, there were plenty of orphans like Ulani and Tana who needed loving homes. And maybe that was the better choice anyway, to offer a home to a child already alive as opposed to bringing a new one into the cruel world.
Her mind was wandering again, flitting back and forth between these thoughts of a future that might never be and a past that she was only now beginning to truly understand. Of course, if she couldn’t get any further in her train
ing, then the future would be short indeed. Much better to stay focused on the present. And in the present, she was trailing far behind Tana.
In fact, she was on the remedial track, still working on targeting the center tree and leaving the rest untouched. She breathed deeply and her avatar kitten appeared, then morphed into its powerful wildcat form. The leonine figure paced in front of her before she directed it outward. It shot forward and was back in a fraction of a second. This time the center three trees were blackened and crumbling, but the two on the end were intact.
“Better,” Murmur said coming up beside her.
“But still slow and inaccurate,” Mooriah added. “You must try harder.”
Kyara grit her teeth. “I am trying.”
“Harder is what I said.”
Kyara bit back her retort and calmed herself. The targets were reset and she did the drill again. And again. With each attempt, she made incremental progress that buoyed her with hope. But Mooriah was strung tight as a bow and ready to snap.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Kyara was able to target only the center tree. A smile graced her face though she did truly feel like celebrating. “I don’t understand why this is so difficult. I’ve been able to control my aim before.”
“With the use of external sources of Nethersong or in emergency situations when you weren’t thinking about it so hard,” Murmur said. “You must be able to do it on your own and your mind is what is currently getting in the way.”
“Her stubbornness, more like,” Mooriah grumbled.
The thin strand of control that Kyara had kept over her temper around the woman so far snapped and she whirled to face her. “What exactly is your problem? I just completed the test.”
“And you want some sort of award for taking two days to do what that child did in an hour? This isn’t a leisurely vacation we’re on. You’ve already wasted enough time staring at the ocean when you could have been training.”
Kyara took a step closer, seething. “So I was supposed to trust a five-hundred year old woman who wanted to drag me back to the place where they tried to kill the man I love? I’m here now, and I’m doing my best.”
“You’re here and if this is your best then we’re all doomed.” Mooriah’s face was blank as slate and Kyara wanted to smack her. She nearly did but Murmur placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. His touch was barely substantial but did its job in staying her hand. However, anger still bubbled inside her.
“I. Am. Trying.”
Mooriah leaned in until they were nearly nose to nose. “Try. Harder.” She took a step back and spread her arms out. “We must defeat the True Father, the three of us. A dead woman, a child, and the Poison Flame. We must be at full capacity or he will win.”
A hint of vulnerability cracked her stony exterior. That was what cooled the rage beneath Kyara’s skin. “What did he take from you? I thought you grew up here, protected from him?”
Mooriah’s shoulders sank, causing her to deflate a bit. “He killed my father. My mother, too, I suppose you could say. Made me an orphan.”
Kyara swallowed. “I didn’t realize.” She dropped her head. “I’m ashamed to share his blood. So please trust that I will work as hard as I can to see him defeated.”
“Share his blood?” Mooriah frowned.
“I was born in the harem. He sires sons almost exclusively, but there are a few of us daughters around.”
The woman shook her head. “You are not his daughter.”
Kyara froze. “What makes you say that?”
She snorted. “Because I have kept track of my descendants. My children lived in the mountain for a time, several generations in fact. But I’d always wanted them to live outside. Eventually, they left the Mother for life in Lagrimar. They adopted my father’s house, that of the Mistress of Eagles, and became Sarifors.
“The True Father is not your father, Kyara. Your mother fell in love with a soldier who died before you were born. When she was taken to the harems, she was already pregnant with you. You are one of mine. You were never his.”
Kyara stumbled backward. The shock was so great that it tore her away from the spirit realm of the heart of the Mother back into her body seated in front of the fire in the small cave. The bodies of Tana, Mooriah, and Murmur were around her, still in their trances.
Kyara stood on wobbly legs and left the cave. Across the chasm, Ella was cooking something over a fire. She looked up when Kyara emerged, but if she said something, Kyara couldn’t hear her for the rushing in her ears.
Her whole life—she had to reimagine the way she looked at her whole life. Everything she’d ever thought about herself was different now. She wasn’t ul-nedrim at all, she was of the House of Eagles. The Mistress of Eagles with her prophetic knowledge and perceptiveness was her lineage. She was actually related to Mooriah. The thought made a shiver go down her spine.
She leaned back against a wall and closed her eyes, trying to picture herself amidst this new reality. She felt Mooriah’s presence, but the woman stood next to her quietly.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Kyara breathed.
Mooriah sighed. “I honestly did not think that you would want to know. From the moment I arrived you have been … prickly.”
“I’m an orphan. Family is … a dream come true.” She opened her eyes to find Mooriah sorrowful, gaze heavy.
“Then I apologize. It was wrong of me not to tell you.”
They stood together in silence for a while as Kyara got used to the feel of the new ground beneath her feet.
Finally, she sucked in a breath and pushed off the wall. “All right, I’m ready to go back. I have a lot of work to do. But later … I have questions.”
Mooriah smiled sadly. “Of course. I’ll do my best to answer them.”
“Thank you.”
“And Kyara?”
She turned, brows raised.
“I am proud that you’re mine. I am hard on you, which is my way, but know this, if we must be only three, and I could have chosen who to stand with, I would have chosen you.”
A lump formed in Kyara’s throat. She stared at Mooriah, mouth agape, before retreating into the steamy heat of the cave. She sat before the fire, covering her face, trying in vain to hold back the tears.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The earth underfoot is priceless,
valued by all.
Who owns the air or ocean or mountain?
Who taxes our breath, our joy, our dance
in currency other than Harmony?
—THE HARMONY OF BEING
“That woman is impossible.” Jasminda groaned once King Pia and her Cabinet ministers had left the meeting room. This was the third day of talks to end the trade embargo and the leaders had done nothing but go around in circles. “What does she even want?” She dropped her head into her hands and sighed.
The thunk that sounded on the table in front of her startled her. A crystal glass half-full of brown liquor had been placed there. Jasminda looked up to find Minister Calladeen seated beside her, holding his own glass. He and some of his top staff had been present for the past two days of meetings. As Minister of Foreign Affairs, and, according to Jack, an intelligent, talented diplomat in spite of his many other flaws, she had to admit he’d been helpful.
He’d kept the meetings on track, offered numerous suggestions for compromise, and had not reacted to Pia’s cutting remarks or thinly veiled insults. Plus, he’d been extremely deferential and respectful to Jasminda. At least he knows how to behave in front of guests, she thought.
Now she studied the glass he’d set before her. She wasn’t much of a drinker, and part of her wondered if he’d poisoned it. But death at this point might be welcome; at least she wouldn’t have to deal with that impossible Raunian harpy anymore.
“Thank you,” she said, lifting the glass gingerly to her lips. The liquor burned as it went down, but she relished it. The sensation jump-started her body, making her muscles and bones
feel something other than pure exhaustion.
She exhaled slowly as her insides warmed. “I cannot believe that we are on the verge of economic collapse from an embargo that she started because Prince Alariq offended her by questioning the quality of the Raunian ships we’d purchased.”
Calladeen tapped the table with his own glass before draining its contents in one swallow. “Alariq was always careful. He accused Raun of selling us substandard ships very purposefully. He must have been enacting a longer-range plan, one that he was, sadly, unable to see out before being murdered.”
Her veins began to heat as the alcohol took hold. Was this extra potent or was she just a lightweight? She should probably stop now, but she took one more sip. “Do you know what Alariq’s plan was?”
Calladeen frowned and shook his head. “I know that he was seeking to use some kind of leverage against Pia. Playing the Raunian shipbuilders off of those in the south, but beyond that, no. We were meant to have a meeting on the matter the day after he was killed.”
“He left no notes or anything?”
He snorted. “Alariq left a great many notes. King Jaqros has been through them, however, to my knowledge he never found anything detailing his brother’s plans for Raun. That kind of thing Alariq kept in his head.”
Jasminda sat up straighter and pushed the glass away. She was outmatched against Pia, everyone could see that. “What do you think we should do, Minister?” She turned toward him.
Calladeen stared forward, unseeing. “We need to understand the game she’s playing. What does she want? What does she need?”
“Her ego stroked,” Jasminda said, and Calladeen actually laughed. This shocked her into silence. It appeared to shock him as well.
“I sense that her relationship with her daughter is … tense,” he said, after recovering. “I wonder if that played some part in her decision to visit in person.”
Jasminda sighed. “I’d wondered that as well. She must have known that Ani was planning on leaving—she and her crew have been here for weeks and that can’t be good for business. I know they’ve been antsy. And given the lack of progress on where the wedding should be held…” She shook her head.