“You’re back?” the mystic called Bliss said.
“Still as observant as ever,” Sigrid said.
“Watch it, dear Sister. I buried you once before.”
Sigrid hopped down from the monster. The fall was far, but she landed as if it were only a step. No buckle in her knees, no strain.
“It won’t be so easy to stab me in the back this time,” Sigrid whispered. “Besides, we both want the same thing. We know now who the true enemy is.”
“That we do,” Bliss said, staring up to the sky, where dark clouds swirled over the Red Tower at the lake’s center. It looked like one of the hurricanes which sometimes tore through Dockside, only there was no wind or lightning. And the still, gentle silence of it was unnerving. “And He can’t see us now.”
“No, He can’t—“
“Sigrid!” Rand barked to get her attention.
He stomped forward, bracing himself in the face of the glare she shot his way. There was none of the sister he’d once known in it, but as soon as her expression softened, he saw her again. Every memory of their lives rushed through him in a flash. For so long, he’d dreamed of leaving Dockside, of being something great, like a Shieldsman. In the end, only Sigrid really mattered to him, and it took too long for him to realize it.
“Watch your tone,” Bliss said, winding her spectral form around him. Her fingers grazed the back of his neck like steel left outside during the last days before Freefrost.
“That’s all right,” Sigrid said. “He’s just confused. Iam taught these poor mortals so little. They can’t be blamed for their ignorance.”
“Buried, but not dead,” Rand said. “You said that when I was last with you. I know what it means; I was a Shieldsman. You’re more than just an upyr now, aren’t you?”
Sigrid smiled, her one cheek dimpling how it always had. The sight of it made Rand’s heart skip a beat. “You know who I am.”
“I heard Sir Unger and the others speak it on the battlefield. But I cannot believe…”
“Say it, Rand,” Sigrid teased. “I want to hear it from your lips.”
“Why are you doing this, Siggy?”
“That’s not my name. Say it!”
“You… you’re the… you’re Nesilia. The Buried Goddess.”
“Yessss,” she moaned. Her eyelids flickered, jaw trembling as if she’d just taken a hit of manaroot.
Rand stepped toward her for a closer look. His muscles seized. He wanted to shrink away and cower, but he fought the urge.
“Are you even in there, Siggy?” he asked softly.
“Of course, she is,” his sister’s tongue answered. “Sigrid has been a wonderful host. She understands what this world needs.”
“And what is that?”
“Freedom,” she said.
“I watched what you did at White Bridge,” Rand said. “I see what you’ve done here… I…” He cleared his throat. “The Sigrid I know wouldn’t do all this. She wouldn’t kill all of these people.”
“Do you really know her, now?” Nesilia asked. “After all, you did leave her alone to die in Yarrington.”
“I was trying to save her!” Rand shouted, verging on tears that had become all too familiar. “I thought I was helping.”
“That’s the problem,” Bliss said. “Men… they always think we need their help.”
“I know what you are,” Rand said. “I’ve seen what your followers do. Sigrid has seen it. There’s no way she would help you. You’re the darkness that everyone in the Glass Kingdom fears at night— man or woman. You’re the absence of Iam’s light.”
“Iam,” Nesilia scoffed. Bliss joined in somewhere behind him but he dared not look. “Is that what the priests teach you while He plunges this world into war and greed? While He watches from high above as you slaughter each other? Sigrid has seen what my followers are capable of, and she realizes that there is no madness in their pursuit of freedom. There are only those strong enough to live free with them. And, now, she is amongst them.”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Rand said, finally. “I want to talk with my sister.”
Nesilia was close now, pacing. She eyed him in the way a wolf does a lone, injured doe. He’d always been taller than his baby sister, but now he felt small, minuscule even.
“Your sister wishes for me not to harm you,” Nesilia said. “And so, I will not. You are lucky; her will is too strong for me to defy her wishes.”
“You should have taken a body like mine,” Bliss said. “The mystic’s spirit is barely a whisper in my ear. Pathetic, yet oh, so powerful.” She extended a palm, and lightning crackled around her fingers.
“Sigrid understands what she must,” Nesilia replied. “This world has fallen to greed and false idols. They’ve lost their way like a ship out to sea, surrounded by fog. Together, we will change that.”
“By killing everybody?” Rand protested.
“Purification. Think of it like a forest fire—by erasing generations of lies whispered by the gods who’d cast me aside. They crave your prayers as they watch the wars among men.”
“And you don’t? Your cultists burned down our home! Sigrid, have you forgotten that? How they danced and murdered and raped?”
His sister’s lips twitched, but only slightly, smoothing over just as quickly. “Do you mean how they managed to infiltrate Yarrington without a soul realizing, while all your lords could think of was the gold in their pockets?”
“Sigrid can’t believe that. You say you want to free the world, but what about her? Let her out! Let her free, and she’ll speak the truth. I know she will.”
“She is freer than ever before.” Nesilia extended her arms. The great water beast at her back—which Rand had somehow forgotten about under the caustic gaze of the goddess—extended its tentacles with her, causing the very ground to quake.
“Let her out!” he roared.
He stomped toward his possessed sister, clutching her by her high collar. In an instant, the one called Bliss sent a potent gust of wind into his back that sent him flying forward into the wall of a waterside home. Vines then grew forth from the stone itself, manipulating his movements, and constricting his arms and legs.
He faced them both now, and as he struggled to catch the breath that was knocked out of him, he saw others approaching him from all sides. He couldn’t turn his head to get a better look, but they were clustered and moving as a singular unit, better even than the Shieldsmen were capable of. Surely, Nesilia was controlling them, too.
“You promised not to kill him, but what a host he might make,” Bliss said, moving in front of him and stealing his attention.
“No,” Nesilia said. “He will do what’s right. The poor soul has just spent a lifetime being lied to.” She sauntered toward him in a way his sister never would’ve. She was beautiful, but never one to flaunt it unless that bastard, Gideon Trapp, the owner of the Maiden’s Mugs, had forced her to. And she never walked like a proper lady of the court hoping to marry a noble, but like a scrappy Docksider. No longer. Her hips swayed in a way that might mesmerize any man who didn’t call her “sister.”
“Liam Notthelm, Uriah Davies, even Torsten Unger—they all lied to you, Rand Langley. They told you Iam was loving and kind and cared about you. But what kind of god allows such death? Have you forgotten the wench, Tessa? That poor girl. Iam let her die, at your hands nonetheless.”
The mention of Tessa gripped Rand’s heart like a giant’s fist.
“You have seen what evils the Glass Kingdom is guilty of,” she said as she moved in front of Bliss. The tentacles of the water beast slithered up behind her. “It took a woman of the North—my free North—Oleander and made her a monster. Countless wars. People living in the filth of Dockside and with nowhere to climb. Weaklings breeding and killing and leeching the life out of Pantego. Now, they follow her child—a boy so weak, even the slightest hint of me freeing him from Iam’s grasp caused him to throw himself from a window.”
“You drove
him mad,” Rand said.
“He drove himself mad. Imagine, half the known world being ruled by a child because ‘Iam said he’s worthy.’ He rewards weakness with favor. You’re smart, Rand Langley. I know that because I know your sister’s every memory and the happiest ones are with you. I can see you both now, running through the streets, laughing, living freely until the claws of life in Iam’s kingdom dug into you both and stole your liberty.”
Rand’s eyes went wide. “How can you see that?”
“I see everything. The question you must ask yourself, Rand, isn’t who I really am. No. It’s whether you’ve been lied to your entire life. Iam is no holy being to admire, and certainly not one to worship. He’s just one of the few gods who survived after letting the rest of us slaughter each other.”
“If I recall, He had your help,” Bliss chimed in.
“Because He lied to me, too!” Nesilia hissed at her, baring fangs sharp as the sea monster behind her. Then she turned back to Rand, her expression turning sickly sweet. “I understand exactly what you’ve been through. But you saw the truth, didn’t you? You fled Iam’s Kingdom.”
“To save you,” Rand said. His gaze fell to the ground, though his head still didn’t move. “To save Sigrid.”
“From a man like Valin Tehr, who fed on the corruption of Iam’s followers like a leach. I promise you, everything that we do—that we will do—is done with your sister’s blessing.”
Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. He lifted his head as far as the restraints would allow and stared straight into Sigrid’s unfamiliar eyes. “Then let me talk to her.”
“She doesn’t want to talk,” Nesilia said with venom. “You failed her before, and while she may love you enough to want me to preserve who you are, she doesn’t forgive you. How could you expect her to?”
“I… I…” Rand stammered. His throat went dry. He frantically swiped at a tear running down his cheek. Everything the Church of Iam had taught him about the Buried Goddess, how she betrayed Iam to spark the God Feud and take over, how she sought only to drive men into entropy and chaos, just like the nature she lorded over, he never expected her to be so right.
“It’s okay,” Nesilia whispered. She reached out and cupped the sides of his face in her hands. Like Bliss, her skin was cold, but in his heart, it was warm. Comforting. Reminded him of home. “You have a chance to redeem yourself now. A chance to make things right. And if you do, I promise, you will speak with your sister again. When Pantego is free, I won’t need the power her body possesses any longer.”
“She’ll be herself again?” he asked, barely able to raise his voice above a whisper.
“She’ll be the best version of herself you’ve ever known. Just as Pantego will be the best version of itself. Help us, Rand Langley, and neither of you will have to scrape by any longer. The strong will be as kings and queens in the new world, and you both are so very strong.”
“Help us?” Bliss asked, appearing over Nesilia’s shoulder. “What could we possibly need this pathetic sack of flesh for?”
“I have some ideas.” Nesilia released him, rose to her full height, and stepped back.
The vine withered away, releasing Rand’s limbs. An instant later, he felt hands all over, helping him to his feet. He hadn’t noticed how close the inhabitants of Panping had grown until just then. They were all around him, hundreds of them, gathering in the streets—maybe thousands—all their eyes black as midnight.
II
The Mystic
Warm gusts of wind gently caressed Sora’s face, uncharacteristic for the season. There was something special about the Glintish capital of Myen Elnoir. Something that not only warded away the harshness of the land surrounding it but also, seemingly, defended against Nesilia’s demonic army as well.
For days, they’d been seeing thick plumes of smoke pouring into the sky from the south—Panping. They swirled up and joined an ever-growing mass of lingering dark clouds. Rumors had spread quickly that a white-haired devil was terrorizing the region, but no one had called her by name. It didn’t matter, Sora knew it was Nesilia. She could almost feel her.
Along with Whitney, Tum Tum, and the Glintish woman called Lucindur, Sora had spent her last weeks on the Covenstan Depths, running from grimaurs as they soared above, often daring to swoop down upon the Reba. Aboard his ship, Sora had to continually remind herself that Gold Grin had been under the influence of Nesilia when they were together, just as she had been. That he’d done what any old man would have if a young lady threw herself at him. The memories still made her skin crawl.
Each night, as the sun went down and the moons rose, so too did her fear of the night. As someone with an affinity for fire magic, darkness never once scared her. Not until Nesilia dragged her into the place called Nowhere—a place where night seemed to swallow her whole.
Now, she sat alone in the crow’s nest. They were docked just outside Myen Elnoir, overlooking the breathtaking city. Here, there was not a flying grimaur in sight, just a city like nothing she’d ever dreamed possible.
No walls were encircling it, no watchtowers with archers like there’d been throughout Yaolin City. From there, high above, she had a clear view of the streets, sprawled like the spokes of a giant wagon wheel. Lining each one, on both sides, was building after building, all pristine and so clean they almost glowed. Every single one was the purest white.
If someone had told Sora about that part, she’d have thought it sounded boring… but this was anything but. It was gorgeous, immaculate, and magical—a tiny paradise nestled in the mountains between landscapes of war and death. Even the Glass army’s presence was minimal like they never expected trouble here.
Golden arches cast shadows upon golden roads, bridging rooftop to rooftop, smaller versions of the towering one at the western entry that garnered so much fame. Joyful sounds echoed throughout the entirety of the city—music, dancing, playing. It was as if no one worked around here, and if they did, they treated the job like it was their greatest dream to fulfill.
However, Sora couldn’t enjoy it. None of it.
None of it mattered.
Instead, her mind was drawn to the Drav Cra warlock, Freydis. Sora hadn’t been able to forget a single moment of her imprisonment deep within her own mind. Even the times with Nesilia in complete control, Sora remained aware of the things she was doing. Even if the memories were faint, they were there.
The murder. The sex. The manipulation.
She’d fought—with every ounce of her considerable strength, she’d fought, but all of it was in vain. Nesilia may have been cast out of Sora’s body, but the Buried Goddess remained at large. And now, with hints of Nesilia in Panping and talk of cultists and worse ravaging the city her ancestors had called home—it was too much to bear.
Every time she closed her eyes, Sora felt taunted, like Nesilia was right there, just beyond her mental grasp, prepared to strike again.
At that moment, high above the pristine streets, Sora felt like Freydis. Not the vicious Freydis she’d left in the Citadel at Brekliodad, but the one she’d met in the alley on the dirty streets of Dockside. The tongueless, hopeless Freydis… that was how she felt. Despite all her rehearsed words, explanations, complaints, and petitions for help or forgiveness or whatever else, Sora had barely been able to utter a single word since the initial shock of her freedom had worn off.
Weeks spent plowing through ice-dotted waters, and Sora hadn’t so much as said, “thank you.”
And poor Whitney…
After all he’d already been through, he’d had to endure her reticence, too. And endure it, he had—with unexpected grace. He talked, sure, spun his exaggerated tales, tried to get her to open up in all his silver-tongued ways, but he never pushed.
Nesilia had forced her into silence, and Sora didn’t even know how much time she’d lost. Whitney claimed he’d been deprived of years in Elsewhere—torn from this world, buried beneath earth and water, bound to a world not his own. The whole ti
me, Sora had searched for him, desperate to hold him, to speak to him, to tell him how much he meant to her.
Now, even the thought of speaking had her terrified.
What if she said the wrong thing and Nesilia burst out of Nowhere like it was all an act, driving Sora back into those depths? Maybe the Buried Goddess hadn’t been stored within the bar guai at all. Maybe she hadn’t been cast into that awful upyr’s body. Maybe she was waiting. Biding her time.
The gray clouds looming to the south told a different story. Sora could make believe it was a storm on the horizon, but no dream could be so sweet. Even looking at it made her heart sink.
For so long, a genuine fear that Nesilia’s presence would forever remain with Sora ravaged her mind—a soul tie, she’d heard it called. One of Madam Jaya’s many lessons about possession spoke of the lingering effects—a piece of the soul left within the body. The thought was terrifying. But she had been equally frightened that the Buried Goddess would leave and occupy another, like Freydis—powerful and willing.
Possession remained a very mysterious thing, but every text in Wetzel’s shack and every word spoken by her teachers at the Red Tower agreed that the key to a demon fully taking control of any being on Pantego was willingness and weakness of will. Sora’s will had nearly been broken battling Nesilia before Whitney arrived, and Nesilia was far more than some mere demon.
Freydis had been willing, but Nesilia said she wasn’t strong enough. The upyr Sigrid, on the other hand, had been powerful… very powerful… and what should stop her from being willing? She was already a pawn of darkness. What higher service than playing host to the vilest of all deities?
Yet here we sit while Panping burns, scared like children abandoned in the streets of Winde Port, she thought.
As a young girl, Sora had spent many long nights in fear, lying awake in the small room below Wetzel’s shack, surrounded by dust-covered books and scrolls, wishing she could be someone else… anyone else. Never did she think her wish would be granted in such a gruesome manner.
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