“Sora, the one with no place to call home.” A voice spoke, but Sora wasn’t sure from which of the figures it had come.
Sora remembered what Lord Bokeo said about staying quiet and looked to him. He gestured for her to respond, though she wasn’t sure how to.
“It is… I,” she stammered and immediately felt ridiculous. It’s what Whitney would’ve said, never the one to feel out of place no matter how bizarre the situation. She regarded Lord Bokeo again, and he nodded in approval.
“Aran Bokeo, we thank you for your service,” the voice spoke again. “You may leave.”
“Wait,” Sora said, then cringed.
Lord Bokeo flinched but still rose and walked toward the door. He shot Sora a look that seemed to convey his condolences for the wrath she was about to suffer. Aquira shifted nervously as well, reminding Sora she was there.
The blue robed figure stood and stepped down from the throne. “Bokeo, wait.” The voice sounded feminine as it hovered in the air.
Sora heard the shuffling of Bokeo's boots as he stopped.
“Our guest wishes for you to stay,” the figure said. “Is that right?”
“I… uh…. Yes, my Lady,” Sora said, hoping she addressed her correctly. She wasn’t sure why she cared if Lord Bokeo, a relative stranger, remained, but even a face familiar for but minutes was preferable to these robed figures who reminded her of Redstar’s followers in the Webbed Woods.
“Then please, stay.”
“Yes, Ancient One,” Lord Bokeo responded, bowing. Sora took note of the title.
“Do you know why you are here, Sora?” the woman asked.
“No, Ancient One,” Sora replied.
“Aquira tells us you are special.”
“May I ask you something about that?” Sora asked.
The Ancient urged her to continue with an elegant wave of her hand.
“I do not understand how Aquira told you anything when she’s been with me since nearly the day we met,” Sora said.
“Aquira is not average, just as you are not average.” The woman turned her shrouded face toward Aran Bokeo as if waiting for approval, and they exchanged a nod. “Many years ago, when the gods spoke of Tayvada’s sacrifice, we sent Aquira to wait for you.”
“For me? I’m sorry, I still do not understand. I… I grew up in a small village far from all of this. An orphan of war, that’s all.”
“The Well of Wisdom showed us that in Tayvada’s passing, you would finally be ready to return to us. To fulfill your destiny.”
“My what?” Sora fought back the sick feeling within her belly. To think, Tayvada might have died because of her, just as Whitney possibly had. She couldn’t believe it. “Tayvada didn’t pass, he was murdered by an upyr who was hunting another… my friend.”
“The cause of his death matters not. Only that his lifeblood was spilt. Aquira knew the moment she met you at the guild that you were the one for which we have waited so long. When she told Tayvada, he accepted his fate, as you must.”
Sora looked to Aquira. The wyvern blinked her two sets of eyelids, then bobbed her head, frills wriggling.
“She speaks now?” Sora asked.
“Not with words. In time, you will learn to communicate with her, and she will be your aid as we embark upon this great journey. It is time to fulfill your destiny.”
“And if I refuse?”
Behind her, Aran Bokeo winced. She was uncomfortably aware of the eyes of the other six hooded figures on her even though their faces were shrouded.
“You will not,” the Ancient One said. “Allow me to show you the glory that awaits you in the new Mystic Order. This may be jarring at first…”
“Wait—” Sora said, but it was too late.
The Ancient One stalked toward her, and no sooner had Sora reached for her knife then the mysterious woman waved a hand in front of her eyes. Sora felt a sensation she’d become all too familiar with. Elsewhere tugged, just as it had when the guards held Aquira, as it had when she knew Kazimir was around, as it had so many times before. Only, usually the haunting sensation came from within, but this time it seemed to envelop her.
Heat washed over her body and sweat poured down her brow. Her head swam like it had when Whitney bought her a second drink at The Lofty Mare back in Yarrington.
Without thinking, she took a step and felt faint, then the familiar sting of Aquira’s claws digging into her shoulder vanished. She spun, searching for her wyvern companion who was nowhere to be found. The quick movement almost made her fall over. Something about the room was wrong now. The lines didn’t match up. The place where the wall would normally meet the floor now connected with another wall. Come to think of it, she wasn’t even sure the floor was the floor anymore.
The thrones were gone, and so were the figures seated upon them.
“Lord Bokeo?” Sora called, but he was gone too.
Another shift, and Sora found herself falling to the side. She tumbled from the dais and expected to feel pain as her shoulder collided with the floor, but she felt nothing.
She hadn’t even realized she was clenching her eyes shut. When she opened them, she was floating.
“Sora,” spoke a matronly voice from somewhere. At first, Sora thought it was the Ancient One, but the voice was different. It sounded far off and distant, like someone talking under water.
Sora tried to turn, but with her feet no longer touching the ground, even the smallest movement came at an incredible cost. She finally managed to rotate and face the doorway leading into the room with the bridge and water. Breathing was difficult. Everything around her, she noticed, was the wrong color. No, not color, just shade. Everything was darker, redder.
Something raced toward her, wings flapping. A bird maybe. No. The wings were too big, flapping hard, fast. She recoiled as it got nearer, but it went right through her.
Then fire came. Hot fire. Bright, blinding. She shielded her face from the sudden onslaught of heat.
When it passed, she heard another sound. Her name. The voice was familiar and screaming. Over and over she heard the voice calling her name. There was panic within the word, desperation even. She knew immediately, the voice belonged to Whitney.
“Whitney!” Sora shouted and heard her name come back in reply. She fought against everything to find him, wading through darkness just to get a glimpse. She peeled away another layer of darkness and could just make out his face in the distance, but as she went to call out again, another presence stepped before him. Pale of face, eyes like daggers; a nightmare. Kazimir.
The mere sight of him caused her to jump, and then she fell. She screamed Whitney’s name and could hear him shouting hers, the sound growing more and more faint as she plummeted. Then she stopped, and his presence was gone.
“Whitney?” she said. A series of torches surrounded her and suddenly ignited. Sensation returned to the flats of her feet, dirt between her toes. Everything was still wrong, red, purple, different—plus, now, she was no longer inside Dixia Shanyow. Those words came easily to her, like she’d known them all her life.
“Dixia Shanyow,” she said aloud, and then, “Tsu shensughu ywen zhun tahuet feng yaris tsu weyong ywen hou.”
She not only spoke the words in Panpingese, but she understood them. Earlier that day, she could do little more than say hello in the foreign tongue, now she was speaking sentences.
“The spirit of the gods is found in the one with the will of fire,” the Ancient One’s voice echoed, translating what she’d said back into common.
A sudden rumble tore her from her reverie, and the ground began to shake. Her feet stayed rooted, even as winds blew fiercely, whipping dirt and sand. Slowly, like a worm wriggling from beneath the soil, a rock poked through the surface of the ground. It continued to rise, eternally, yet in an instant. Time meant nothing to Sora as she watched.
When it stopped, she stood staring at something she’d only seen from a great distance. Mount Lister, in all her glory, cast a long shadow over he
r. She recalled the only other time she’d seen it close up, when she stole off from Wetzel’s shack in search of Whitney and wasn’t there to protect him from raiders. She’d only made it to the hills in the western fields before she became overwhelmed by the size of Yarrington.
Even then, she’d never seen it like this.
It was then she realized she’d only thought the mountain stopped rising. It continued into the clouds, ever growing.
The earth shook once more, but this time Sora found it difficult to stand. Small stones pelted her feet and ankles, and she backed away from the spot where dirt and grass collapsed into the earth. A pale hand broke through the surface, grabbing hold of anything it could. Its muscles flexed, and an elbow appeared, then a shoulder.
She expected rent flesh and yellowing bone like that of a dead man, but the hand was smooth as a newborn babe.
A second arm broke through, and with it, a face.
Before she could register the terror in her heart, she stood face to face with the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Her long, black hair, flowed like a flock of ravens behind her, catching the wind. Her eyes were entirely white; her irises only a shade off-color. She wore the most beautiful dress Sora had ever seen—a burial gown fit for a queen.
Her pale skin wriggled all over, and Sora feared maggots covered her until she realized what caused the movement. Small, budding roots and they sprouted leaves.
This strange, buried woman should have been a vile thing of the grave. Instead, she was perfect. Her arm extended. A long finger traced the outline of Sora’s face.
“Yes,” the woman said. “Yes.”
Sora tried to step back but couldn’t.
“Do you know me?” the woman asked.
Sora took a deep breath and said, “I know of you.” She wasn’t sure how, but she knew exactly who she was looking at. Nesilia, the Buried Goddess. She who Redstar and his wicked warlocks worshipped above all else. Nesilia was magnificent, stunning. A power pulsed from her like all the waters of the oceans coalescing into one massive tidal wave.
Nesilia’s brow furrowed, drawing attention to the fact that they were little more than lines of moss across her forehead. “Then tell me what you know of me,” she said. The words came as a gentle request, not a command.
“Awful things, yet now I fear they are mostly lies and myths, my Lady,” Sora said. She hadn’t even meant to call her that, but in the goddess’ presence, she struggled to find any other title.
Nesilia smiled, then gestured for her to continue.
“I’ve heard from the men who worship Iam that you were… are the false goddess. Evil and without a heart—but I met evil. Bliss was pure evil. You… you’re something else.”
Nesilia still smiled but said nothing.
“I’ve heard from your followers in the North that you and Iam were lovers, that he saved you by cursing Bliss—the One Who Remained—but I think both tales are too different for either to be trusted in their entirety and both people too flawed.” As the answers flowed through her lips, Sora wasn’t even sure if she was in control of what she was saying, like her deepest, unconscious thoughts were slipping out.
“Smart girl.” As Nesilia spoke, vines spread from her feet and ankles, slinking ever closer to Sora who didn’t dare move. “But what do you believe?”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
“In my heart, I chose to believe the story of love. That Iam created Elsewhere for the gods and goddesses who rebelled, but you, he loved. After cursing Bliss, he let you stay buried beneath his throne so he’d never be far from you.”
Something new washed over the goddess' face like a shifting shadow.
“I’m sorry, my Lady, if I offended,” Sora said.
“He wanted to punish that witch… that vile and heinous creature,” Nesilia said, her voice growing louder. “She thought herself so beautiful, so perfect. So, he stole her looks. Cursed her to become the creature you met. He thought it would be the ultimate punishment. Send all the rebels to Elsewhere except the one who struck out against me, his love, his Queen!”
As she said the last word, the ground shook, and sharp, jagged rocks rose up around them like the talons of a carrion bird.
“He cursed her, but he blessed her as well! She may have become a beast, but he let her retain that which gods love most: the fear of our creation. All of the world feared her—even those who didn’t know she existed. Each time they saw an eight-legged pest scurry across their floors, their fear fueled her.”
“But for me...” Nesilia pressed a hand against her heart. “He said he loved me! Said he wanted me close. He could have saved me, built me a throne upon His Mountain. Instead, the very earth healed me.”
Nesilia stroked the vines which now covered her arms.
“Even the lesser gods were free to rule Elsewhere,” she went on, “but I was the one who was cursed! What’s worse than being a dreadful beast?”
When she hesitated, Sora wasn’t sure if she expected a response. Sora stuttered until Nesilia’s chin fell to her chest, and a black tear, like sap, ran down her cheek.
“Being forgotten,” Nesilia said softly.
“My Lady… I…” Sora stopped. All her life, she’d heard the Church of Iam preach against Nesilia and her role in starting the God Feud, even more so than the other fallen gods. Then, she heard Redstar speak of her glory and giving her life out of love. At the time she thought little of it, but now, as Sora looked upon the Buried Goddess, she could only feel pity.
“I am so sorry,” Sora finished.
“For what?” Nesilia questioned. “It was not you who abandoned me.”
“I—no… it was not.”
“Why have you come to this plane?” Nesilia asked, jolted from her sadness in an instant.
“I was sent by an ancient mystic, I think. She said I would see the glory that awaits me.”
“So, look upon me, girl. Feast upon my glory and do not forget it!”
The world began to swirl again. The mountain rumbled as Nesilia’s scream rang out, then it broke into countless pieces, scattering and showering down around Sora. She cried out even though none of the stones touched her.
Suddenly, Nesilia’s face was all she could see, filled with fury. Yet there was something else there. That sorrow and loneliness remained within her colorless eyes even as her features twisted with rage. In that moment, Sora wanted nothing more than to be close to the goddess, to embrace her and soothe her pain.
And with that, Sora’s entire world collapsed around her.
XIII
THE THIEF
Following a hearty breakfast made by Lauryn, accompanied by the kind of awkward silence one would expect at the table after a thieving son gets his father crippled, Whitney and Kazimir set out to harvest.
It had been a long time since Whitney gripped a sickle, but it didn’t take long to find his rhythm. It also didn’t take long before he remembered all the reasons he’d left the farm to begin with. Between the fragments of vegetation pelting his skin, the hot sun, and the bugs buzzing around, he was itchy and irritable.
Young Whitney was outside as well, supposed to be helping, but instead kicking around rocks by the barn with his head down. Whitney didn’t bother him. He couldn’t believe his younger self would feel such guilt, but then again, the real version of himself had never got his father’s back broken. Barns are easier to mend than bones.
“You know what I hate?” Whitney asked.
Kazimir ignored him, as he’d been doing all morning. He simply worked, quiet and drone-like, hacking away. After all this time together, Whitney still couldn’t get a read on the man. The ruthless, rule-bending killer, happy to fall in line and listen to all the ingrates in this phantom Troborough. It was hard to fear him now.
“The color brown,” Whitney answered himself. “I miss anything that isn’t brown. Look around you. Brown fields, brown houses, brown roofs. Even the horses and goats are brown. Shog, even their shog is bro
wn. That’s why I left this place—well, that and a million other reasons.”
“Yet, here we are, harvesting barley in Elsewhere,” Kazimir said.
“You know what I realized?” Whitney threw his sickle to the ground. The tedium of work gnawed at him like a swarm of angry locusts.
“What?” Kazimir didn’t even bother looking up from his work.
“We wouldn’t be here at all if not for you.”
“Is that so?”
“Let’s see,” Whitney started as he approached the upyr. “First, you appear like a creep from the shadows of some murdered guy’s bedroom. Then, you kidnap my… friend. Then, you try to kill us both.”
“And I’d have succeeded if your mystic friend had the slightest clue how to wield her magic,” Kazimir growled. He stabbed his sickle down and looked to the sky. “Trapped here, thanks to an accident.”
“Oh, poor you,” Whitney shoved him.
“You’re going to regret that.”
“You aren’t as tough without your spiky teeth, dung breath.” He wasn’t sure what came over him. Kazimir was right; he was the one who’d committed to helping run the farm. Kazimir just played along for reasons Whitney still couldn’t understand. But Whitney pushed him again, harder this time.
As Kazimir stumbled back, a sound drew Whitney’s focus to the creek. Young Whitney was behind the barn out of view of his house, throwing stones at fence posts with a young, Panpingese girl with long, jet-black hair. Whitney hadn’t even noticed that the boy had somehow slipped away.
“Sora…”
It was the only word Whitney got out before he felt Kazimir’s balled fist connect with the side of his head, and then the cold earth came up to meet him.
Whitney came to, sprung to his feet, and dropped into a fighting stance, but Kazimir was nowhere around. It was no longer morning. The sky was dark again, and to Whitney's chagrin, a deep purplish maroon, as unnatural as could be. Whitney realized he must have been knocked out cold. His ears rang, and he saw starry blotches before his eyes.
The Redstar Rising Trilogy Page 84