Page 31

31

A ALIA KNELT NEXT to Tazar’s bed in the imperial ward of the residence tower. A row of cots ran under tall windows, currently covered in drapes to shadow the sun, as it was deep into Eventoll. Each bed had additional canopies and curtains surrounding them, both for privacy and to help the sick and injured to sleep.

Only Aalia wished her beloved’s slumber would come to an end.

She held Tazar’s hand, feeling the slight tremors in his fingers as the poison still had hold of him. Froth flecked his lips with each breath.

“Come back to me,” she whispered.

Across the bed, another woman sat with her head bowed. She quietly intoned prayers to X’or, the Klashean goddess of healing. A white marble sculpture of the deity, robed and holding aloft a bowl, stood in the center of the ward. Water spilled from her basin into a pool at her feet, creating a peaceful sound of rain in a quiet grove. Small candles floated there, amidst drifting crimson leaves from the sacred Talniss trees.

“I appreciate your prayers, Althea,” Aalia said. “May X’or bless us both.”

The tall woman was Tazar’s second-in-command, though of late she had taken on much of the burden of managing the Shayn’ra rebels in Tazar’s stead.

Though her role may grow far larger if he does not survive.

Althea nodded back. Her dark eyes stared from under a sweep of black hair and through the white stripe of her Shayn’ra marking.

A commotion rose from a canopy a few beds down, a mix of pleading and growled threats. Aalia stood, her body going tense. Her fortitude remained strained after the attack two bells ago.

A small-framed maidenhest—an apprentice to a physik—burst out of the canopy, searching frantically up and down. She spotted Aalia and rushed over. Once close enough, the woman dropped to her knees. Her momentum slid her closer to the empress of the realm.

The maidenhest bowed her forehead to the floor, her words to the marble. “Your Grace, we must beg your guidance.”

A bellow echoed from the other canopy, making clear where that guidance was needed. Aalia also recognized the voice behind that fury. She waved the maidenhest up and strode quickly. With each step, her anger grew. Her patience was even more strained than her fortitude.

She reached the canopy and tore open the drape. Inside, two physiks held down a bare-chested man, his bandaged arm in a sling. He thrashed in their grip and likely only failed to break free due to his injured limb and his recent loss of blood.

It was the Fist of the Paladins.

Regar’s eyes fell upon Aalia. She read the agony in his face, the shame and humiliation.

“He demanded his sword,” one of the healers said, straightening and nodding to a stack of light armor and weapons.

“He intended harm to himself,” the other stated, his voice ringing with annoyance. “A clear insult to our efforts.”

Regar’s gaze swept down. “I failed you, Empress. Disgraced myself. There is only one path to penance.”

“Upon the point of your blade.”

Regar slumped deeper, his back bent by guilt.

Aalia stepped to his bed and sat near the foot. “My Paladin, I do not give you permission to seek penance. I will not give the Brotherhood the satisfaction of taking another life from my side. If it’s penance you seek, then live long enough to mete out my justice. Such is my will.”

Regar remained bent. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Aalia leaned down to catch his eye, lowering her voice. “I would not feel safe without my Fist at my shoulder. Is that understood?”

He swallowed hard, then nodded.

Aalia stood. “And quit fighting those who seek to put you back on your feet, to return you to my side.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The two physiks bowed their appreciation as she left. She crossed and returned to Tazar’s bed. Two more women had joined the vigil.

Saekl leaned over Tazar, testing an eyelid, then his breath, while Cassta hung back.

Aalia stared on with concern. “You know this poison better than any physik. What do you surmise his chances to be?”

Saekl’s answer was blunt. “Slim but not none.”

Aalia could not hide her anguish as tears welled. “Is there nothing else we can do?”

“Only time will reveal his fate. His body must rid the poison on its own, clearing what the tonic could not reach. Each day he keeps breathing, his odds will rise.”

Cassta shifted closer. “Tazar is strong,” she said firmly, perhaps seeking to soften the other’s frankness. “And he has a good reason to fight. When the heart has a goal, the body often follows.”

Aalia nodded, praying for that to be so. She shifted and took Tazar’s hand. She brought its back to her lips. To her, it felt like his tremoring had diminished, but it might only be a reflection of her own heart’s desire.

Across the bed, Althea confronted Saekl. “What of the Brotherhood? Were you and your sisters able to determine how they reached the heart of the citadel?”

Saekl shrugged. “We uncovered a trail of bodies, hidden from sight, exposing the point of entry—a spot that only someone with intimate knowledge of the citadel could’ve known about.”

Aalia grimaced.

Mareesh…

“No other members of the Brotherhood have been discovered,” Cassta added. “They would’ve fled. Such is their way. Still, our sisters are out hunting.”

Saekl nodded. “In addition, your Eye of the Hidden has dispatched his crows along their path—both those with wings and those who traverse the shadows.”

“Still, we must take care,” Cassta warned.

A voice called from down the ward, accompanied by a rush of footfalls. Rami closed the distance, breathless. His gaze swept those gathered around the bed, then settled on the fever-sheened figure under the blanket.

“How is Tazar faring?”

Aalia stood, having no desire to rehash the grim assessment. “What do you want, Rami? Why have you flown down from your room?”

“To bring you up there.” He pointed above. “Frell, Pratik, and Tykhan just returned—though it took some convincing for them to get through the cordon of knights bristling at the base of this tower.”

“Did they discover anything in the Codex?”

“Something, but I don’t know what. They were very guarded.”

“Why meet in your room?”

“Besides the fact that I have the best reserve of wine and tabakroot, it’s clear no one’s crossing over to the Blood’d Tower anytime soon.”

That is certainly true.

“Yet, that’s not the main reason,” Rami explained. “What the others have to say is meant only for a few ears.”

Aalia glanced to the bed, hating to leave Tazar’s side.

Althea must have noted her distress. “I will watch over him. If there’s any change, I’ll dispatch a messenger.”

“Thank you.”

Saekl stepped away, too. “I must attend to my sisters. Cassta can go in my stead, if that’s agreeable?”

Rami grinned. “Actually, I know one person who would be quite disagreeable if she didn’t come.”

K ANTHE GATHERED WITH everyone around the long table in Rami’s suite of rooms. An Eventoll repast lay spread across the top: platters of braised duck, bowls of spiced beans, steaming loaves of dense brown breads, rounds of cheese, and herb-infused oils.

Most of the fare remained untouched.

The lack of interest had nothing to do with the Klashean tradition of avoiding topics of import while breaking bread. Kanthe had learned of this custom from Brija, a brittle-backed Chaaen hieromonk who had been bound to him early on. She insisted that mealtime conversations must always be light, as a means to aid digestion. Her admonition stuck with him.

Sour talk leads to a sour stomach.

This evening, the group had ignored the spread, all struggling to digest their respective stories: of assassins in the dark, of a strange crystal arkada, of glimpses of a war lost in the mists of time.

From their expressions, sour stomachs plagued them all.

Still, each found their own balm.

Kanthe swirled a crystal glass of Aailish wine, staring deep into its dark red mysteries. Aalia tore pieces of bread in her fingertips, likely picturing a certain traitorous brother. Pratik slowly turned the iron collar about his neck, seemingly unaware he was doing it. Frell remained deep in thought as he rolled a legion of peas back and forth across his plate, as if scribing a battle strategy.

Two of the group had already abandoned the spread.

Rami stood to the side by a cold hearth with a long pipe at his lips, wafting twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. Cassta had spread blades across a table and was meticulously sharpening them.

One of their party had never come to the table.

Tykhan stood by the window, its heavy drapes parted, bathing his bronze body in the Eventoll sunlight. He still struggled to soften his form, to regain his strength after being drained in the darkness.

Tired and heavy of heart, Kanthe finally broke this moment of contemplation. “What does it truly matter if there was another Vyk dyre Rha in the past?”

Attentions swung his way.

“We know nothing about who she was, how she came to be, or the manner in which Eligor turned her into a weapon.” Kanthe swung his gaze around. “What we do know is that she’s not Nyx.”

Frell abandoned his peas in the battlefield. “That may be so, but to ignore the lessons of the past is a fool’s path.”

“Then what do you propose?” Aalia asked. “Send word to the others? Have them kill this woman on the oft chance she becomes enthralled by the enemy in the future?”

Frell frowned. “Certainly not. Without Nyx, I doubt the others will ever get the second turubya stirring. But we must look steps ahead. Once both turubya are spinning, there is only one means of controlling them.”

“The key that Eligor hid,” Pratik answered.

Frell nodded. “We must waste no time in obtaining it. Once that second turubya is running, whoever possesses the key controls the world. Tykhan has warned us of this. Nothing else matters after that.”

Kanthe set down his wine. “How can we hope to gain this key? Where could it be?”

“I don’t know. At the moment, I doubt Eligor is in possession of it. Which means at some point he will need to secure it himself. But with him now awake, possibly able to break loose, that risk rises with every passing day. And if Nyx returns and somehow becomes enthralled like in the past, then we’ve lost before we’ve begun.”

Rami shifted from his post by the hearth. “You’re clearly leading somewhere, alchymist. Spit it out.”

Frell gained his feet, staring around the room. “We must secure the key—or at the very least learn its location— before the second turubya is activated, before Nyx returns with the others. We can’t risk Eligor obtaining the key first, and we can’t risk him turning Nyx against us.”

Rami sighed. “If so, then we have no time to spare. As I understand it, barring any mishap, the others will reach the region in the Barrens with the turubya in a little over two months.”

Aalia looked grim. “How? How could we possibly wage a war in such a time line?”

“If we hope to somehow lock down Eligor, to strip the location of the key from him, we can no longer wait for war to come to these shores.” Frell turned to the empress. “We must attack Hálendii first.”

Aalia shoved up. “You expect us to win a war, one that has been brewing over centuries between our two realms, in… what? In two months’ time?” She shook her head, sputtering through her shock. “It’s rash, irrational, certain to fail.”

Kanthe offered his own viewpoint. “No, Aalia, it’s simply reckless. ”

He emphasized the last word, reminding her how their first attempt to secure Eligor had failed due to an overabundance of caution. At the council meeting, he had warned her that they all needed to be far bolder if they hoped to stop moonfall.

“Frell is right,” Kanthe said. “We have no choice. The attempt must be made. With doom drawing ever closer, we must act. If we lose this war, the world ends. But if we don’t try at all, then we’ve lost already.”

Rami blew out a stream of smoke. “So, the only hope for the world is a reckless gambit, to start a war we’ll surely lose.”

Aalia’s features darkened with her usual storm clouds. Kanthe readied himself to face her fury. Instead, she swung to Tykhan. “How long will it take to finish your project?”

Tykhan stirred, going from statue to man. “Were you able to secure the draft-iron that I requested?”

Aalia shared a look with Kanthe. “We did.”

“That is good. But still, two months is tight. And that’s assuming Qaar Saur delivers as promised.” Tykhan’s expression turned dour. “With so little time, we will be hard-pressed to take over an entire kingdom.”

Aalia dismissed this concern with a wave. “We don’t need to seize and hold a kingdom. Not even the city of Azantiia. We merely must commandeer Highmount. To hold it and the throne long enough to deal with Eligor. Even if it’s only for a day or two.”

Rami lifted a brow toward Kanthe. “In such a case, my brother, you will have the briefest reign of any monarch in Hálendiian history.”

“I’ve already got one throne that fits me poorly. I don’t need another.”

Pratik stirred. “We’re all forgetting one important detail.”

All eyes swung to the Chaaen.

“With Eligor powered by a schysm, we have little chance to defeat him.” Pratik nodded toward the sunlit window. “And according to our bronze friend, no chance.”

Kanthe closed his eyes, fighting against despair, but Tykhan’s words burned inside him and refused to be ignored.

With Eligor risen to full power, doom is inevitable.

Kanthe had railed against that portent, refusing to accept it, but he struggled to maintain that unflinching footing. They had all heard Tykhan’s description of Eligor blazing atop a mountain, wielding some version of a Vyk dyre Rha. Kanthe rubbed a knuckle under his rib cage, where guilt had poured acid into his gut, knowing he had delivered the schysm into the enemy’s hand, all but dooming the world.

How can we hope for victory when facing such a bronze god?

Tykhan stepped from the window. His features had softened enough to show a strain of guilt, too. Only his next words revealed the source of his shame.

“In communing with the past, I realized an error, something I had not considered after my shock of losing my core.” One hand settled to where he had extracted his schysm. “In that crystal-preserved vision, I witnessed the sheer strength and fiery power wielded by Eligor—which only underscored the impossibility of our small group’s ability to ever challenge such a being.”

“Then what error are you referring to?” Frell asked, sharing a look with Pratik, as if this had significance to the two alchymists. “What do you mean?”

Tykhan stared down at the hand on his belly. “I could never wield such strength as Eligor showed in the vision.” He lifted his gaze to the group. “It requires far more power than can be produced by the schysm of a mere Root. Each of our forms—Root, Axis, and Kryst—have cores suited to our tasks. The most powerful and largest, of course, belongs to a Kryst.”

“Like Eligor,” Kanthe said, feeling a slight brightening of his despair. “If he only has your schysm, that of a Root, then he might be compromised, constrained by its limitations.”

Tykhan bowed his head in acknowledgment, but when he lifted his face, a hopelessness sagged his demeanor. “But do not be mistaken, he will still remain extremely strong. And with time, his body may adjust and compensate, reaching its full potential. In many ways—more important ways—a Kryst’s form is more malleable than even my flowing bronze body. They must not be underestimated.”

Kanthe sat back down. The momentary lightening of his gloom dimmed again. “How long will it take Eligor to achieve this?”

Tykhan shrugged with a sad shake of his head. “I cannot say. But I agree with Alchymist Frell, we dare not wait any longer than necessary.”

Aalia challenged him. “Do we even have two months?”

Tykhan’s grim silence spoke loudly.

Frell cleared his throat. “No matter. We forge ahead and pray for the best. We can do no more.”

Kanthe sighed and cast his gaze to the north, peering through walls and distance to Hálendii, one question foremost in mind.

What will we face when we get there?