Mevon leaned against the rail at the stern of the ship, entranced by the frothing white wake behind them. The gentle rise and fall as the vessel surmounted swells, the lap of waves against the hull, the warm breeze laden with the scent of salt, the sprays that left the deck coated in a slim, slick layer of water—Mevon had never felt more at peace.
The armada sailing behind them, however, reminded him constantly of war.
The nearest less than a hundred paces away, the farthest lost in the dusk’s orange haze, the ships seemed countless.
“Quite a sight to behold, eh?” Yandumar said, patting Mevon’s shoulder as he joined him on the rail.
“Quite,” Mevon said. “How did you manage it?”
“Oh, we started building right after I took the throne. Lots of people looking for work about then. Came from all over the empire. For them, a newly freed people, the project became a point of pride.”
“They’re impressive. I’ve seen river barges and fishing boats, but never anything like this. Where’d you learn how to build them?”
“Archives below the palace. Deep below. Held all sorts of oddly shaped trinkets, each filled with information of some kind. ‘Repositories,’ Orbrahn calls ’em. Can only be read by a caster, of course. Ship designs were in one, ancient but still serviceable. I added what little bit I’d learned from my time outside the Shroud and, well, you’re standing on the results.”
Mevon smiled, as much for the explanation as for seeing his father in such good spirits. Such moods no longer seemed quite so fragile.
He looked up along the main mast and pointed to the flag standing stiff in the wind. Three vertical stripes—white, black, and red. “What does that represent?”
Yandumar flicked his eyes up, then closed them. “White, for the light we lost. Black, for the darkness we overcame. And red, for the blood we shed to earn our freedom.”
Mevon nodded once. “I approve.”
“I thought you might.”
Turning back to the railing, Mevon rubbed a hand along the stubble garnishing his jaw. He breathed out heavily through his nose.
“Something troubling you, son?”
Mevon grunted. “They’re waiting, right? That’s what you came to tell me. I suppose we should get this over with.”
“Ha!” Yandumar said, clapping Mevon on the shoulder again. “I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”
“We’ll see.”
They departed the railing together, marching past the man at the tiller and down the steep steps to the main deck. Sailors bustled about on tasks Mevon had little notion of, but seemed to involve a lot of ropes. Other than those barefooted, shirtless men, and a few archers and crossbowmen, the deck was mostly empty, making the massive ship seem far too vast for its crew. Most of the troops he’d seen spent the majority of their time in their cabins; even Mevon knew that wearing armor on a swaying deck was the surest way to find yourself in a cold, watery grave.
Yandumar led him near the prow and held open the door to his personal cabin. Mevon stepped inside, squinting as he transitioned from natural if fading light to the bright blue of dark-forged lightglobes; a paradox if ever he heard one.
His eyes adjusted quickly. Three figures stood waiting before him.
“Hello,” Mevon said. “I suppose it’s been a while.”
Idrus and Ilyem greeted him with a respectful nod, the former with curled corners of his lips. Orbrahn, kneeling over some strange box, rolled his eyes and chuckled.
Mevon had anticipated glares or crossed arms or outright sneers. This . . . he didn’t know what it was yet, but it wasn’t nearly as hostile as he expected.
“I’m sorry about what I did,” Mevon continued. “Disappearing like that. Making you all think I was dead. I don’t expect you to forgive—”
“Do you honestly think we care?” Orbrahn said.
Mevon stared at the young, dark-haired caster, whose face seemed locked in a perpetual smirk. “I don’t understand.”
“You think any of us wanted to hang around after the fighting was over? Pah! Administrating an empire’s boring business. We’re not mad at you. Well, maybe a little. But only because we didn’t think of it first!”
Mevon shook his head, disbelieving his ears.
“He’s right, you know,” Ilyem said, blue light reflecting off her close-shaven head. “So much changed in so little time. Everyone had to readjust, even our kind.” She gave him a slight, knowing look, not quite a smile. “Especially our kind.”
“Besides,” Idrus said, his uncannily observant eyes giving Mevon a thorough examination, “whatever it was that you set out to do seems to have done you good.”
Mevon sighed, standing a little straighter. He hadn’t realized how much of a burden he’d placed upon himself trying to justify his actions in their eyes. But they’d proven, once again, far greater friends than he could ever be, their understanding lifting that weight from his shoulders like it was nothing. Nothing at all.
“Well, now that we have that settled,” Yandumar said, “let’s move on to more pleasant matters.”
“You call planning a war pleasant, old man?” Orbrahn said, still tinkering with the contraption at his feet. “More like an exercise in tedium.”
“Quit your bellyaching, boy. You know as well as the rest of us that this is what we were all bred for. And what can be more satisfying than doing what you know you’re meant to?”
Mevon smiled. “I couldn’t agree more, Father.”
“Using your own child to gang up on me now?” Orbrahn said. “Not the most sporting tactic, old man. Fine then. I’ll just be over here trying to get this abyss-taken thing to work while you all chat. Come get me when you need something sorcerous solved.”
Yandumar sighed as Orbrahn dragged the box-thing into the farthest corner of the cabin and turned his back on them. “Sometimes I wonder why I appointed him to my inner circle.”
“You couldn’t trust anyone else,” Idrus said. “And despite his arrogance, he’s always been willing to learn.”
Yandumar grunted. “I suppose he has at that.”
“What that he’s working on?” Mevon asked.
“Either a puff of smoke and a pile of ash . . . or something that might actually prove useful. I’m sure we’ll find out which soon enough.”
“You don’t sound very hopeful.”
“Just mindful of history, son. It hasn’t always been kind to our young friend.”
Mevon smiled.
“Gentlemen,” Ilyem said, wearing a look unreadable to most but which Mevon knew for impatience. “May I suggest we begin?”
“Aye,” Idrus added. “We’ll need to make preparations for every conceivable circumstance with this one. The situation is . . . tricky.”
“How so?” Mevon said. “I’ve only heard the basics.”
“For one, the enemy—ruvak, they’re called—are mostly airborne.”
“Airborne? You can’t mean . . . ?”
“They have ships that fly,” Yandumar said. “Not too fast, mind you, but still highly mobile. The only upside is that our . . . allies . . . have similar capabilities, if not quite so many.”
“But not us,” Mevon said.
Idrus flicked his eyes toward Orbrahn. “Not yet.”
Mevon crossed his arms, one hand reaching up to rub his chin. “Tricky indeed. I suppose we could use sorcery to bring them down.”
“Not on our own,” Ilyem said. “Though plentiful, we only have dark casters. From what we’ve been told, only dark and light together can do them harm.”
“That’s going to be a problem.”
“Which is why we’re sailing southeast,” Yandumar said. “We’re to land on the western shores of a land called Panisahldron, then march inland through their jungles to reinforce the main allied force at their capital. Their light casters outnumber the dark more than three to one. What we add should help even those numbers a bit.”
“Seems a sound plan. But what about ground combat? I assume these ruvak do not stay in the air entirely. What capabilities do they possess on foot?”
“They’ve at least three troop types that have been identified so far,” Idrus said. “Large, heavy infantry, and lightly armoured skirmishers. The latter, apparently, have been seen jumping over the heads of upright men.”
“Interesting. And unprecedented. What measures have you taken against them?”
“I’ve made spears our primary infantry weapon, and had the troops practice against thrown sacks full of sand. Our bowmen have switched to shortbows and drill all day for speed. The worst of them can release nine shafts a mark.” Idrus sighed, holding up his hands and shrugging. “Until we meet them in battle, though, this is all just guesswork.”
Mevon nodded. He knew that no plan lasted long past first contact, and you couldn’t truly know an enemy until you’ve crossed blades with them. Still, the preparations seemed effective based on what limited, secondhand information they could get.
“You mentioned a third type,” Mevon said. “What do you know about them?”
“Little,” Ilyem said. “But we’ve been told they tend to keep their distance in battle, ravaging our allies’ lines with strange, chaotic energy.”
“Magic?”
“Most think so.”
“Do we know if—”
“Our kind can negate it?” Ilyem shook her head. “It has yet to be tested.”
Mevon grunted. “We’ll find out quick enough once we face them.”
He felt energy surge from the corner of the cabin as the air filled with a crackling hum. He glanced over at Orbrahn just as the young man lifted his arms in triumph and shouted, “I got it!”
The box, the contraption he’d been working on, now floated of its own accord.
“If we can get those working on a larger scale,” Yandumar said, nodding forlornly towards the flying device, “we’ll find out sooner still.”
Gilshamed slid a finger along Lashriel’s forehead, pushing a strand of long, violet hair out of her face, giving dawn’s rays free rein to dance across her cheek, her jaw, her lips, the tip of her perfect nose. Her breaths came steady, each a whispered assurance that all was well. Though her eyes were closed, he knew that when they opened there would be awareness and intelligence behind them. There would be a soul.
If he could choose one moment, one sliver to pull from time’s merciless, raging river, it would be this one. Here, lying beside his wife, watching as she slumbered, forgetting the centuries they’d been separated, the torments they’d both endured, was as close to bliss as he would likely see this side of paradise.
And since he was no longer sure that anything waited for him beyond abyss’s dark, cold curtain, he would cherish such moments all the more.
He dropped his hand to the bare peak of her shoulder, brushed it down her side to the valley that was her waist, then up her hip’s smooth, curved mound. She stirred at his touch, back arching, arms stretching out to encircle his neck. A sound, half moan, half yawn, purred from her throat. Her lashes parted above a growing smile.
Joy, thought Gilshamed. So this is what it feels like.
“Good morning, my love,” she said.
“It is indeed,” he said, drinking in the sight of her lively, violet eyes. “The best that ever was.”
She snuggled closer. Breath pulsed from her open, anxious mouth, so sweet it seemed holy. Their lips touched with a spark. His hand fell to the small of her back and pulled her closer, tighter and tighter, until he could no longer tell where he ended and she began. As it was meant to be. As they had been, once, so very long ago.
With a sigh and a laugh that threatened to sink Gilshamed into ancient memories, Lashriel pulled away. He regretfully allowed the space between them to widen, at least enough to where they could look once more into each other’s eyes.
“Trying to make up for lost time?” she asked.
Though her tone was obviously playful, Gilshamed still felt a hollow ache in his chest. For her sake, though, he responded with what he hoped was a convincing smile. “There are many things I feel I need to make up for, but this is the only one I wish to.”
“As do I.” She kissed him again, lightly, bringing a hand down to rub his chest. “But another day awaits, my love, and you have a world to go save.”
“Do I?”
She frowned. He’d meant to phrase it as a jest, but in her arms he was laid open, vulnerable, his soul’s truth too raw to conceal. Hiding anything from her would require a great deal of effort, a task made more difficult by the fact that he did not want to. He wanted only to be honest with her, in every way.
I just wish I could spare you from worry.
Her furrowed brow let him know that he was failing.
“Don’t say that, Gil. People need you. Nations need you.”
“But I only need you, my love. The abyss can have the rest.”
“It will unless someone stands against it, spitting defiance in its face. No one does that better than you.”
“I used to think that, as well.” Gilshamed sighed, rolling onto his back to stare at the vaulted white ceiling of their bedchamber. “But I’m afraid that’s no longer the case.”
“How could that be?”
“The world moved on, Lash. You were lost, and I spent every waking moment searching for a way to bring you back. I spurned all responsibilities, all relationships, all cares, became single-minded in my quest. Destructive. I went . . . a little mad. More than a little.
“The world moved on, and now others have taken upon their shoulders the mantle of its protection. People more skilled, more motivated, more selfless than I have the heart to now be. People better than I ever was.
“The world moved on . . . and they do not need me anymore.”
Lashriel buried her face between his shoulder and neck, and for the longest time said nothing. He stroked her hair gently, content to let be the silence and stillness. So long as he was with her, he could endure anything.
It wasn’t until he felt a smear of wetness across his upper chest that he realized she was crying.
His hand froze, still entwined in her curls, and his mouth went dry. He did not know what to say, what to do. His instinct for such things had died alongside so many other parts of him along the way. The ability to give comfort seemed as alien as the ruvak.
“What’s wrong?” he said at last.
“Nothing,” she said, wiping her cheeks.
“No, what is it? You can tell me.”
Lashriel breathed deeply, shaking and clutching him tight. “We’ve lost so much of ourselves, Gil. We aren’t what we used to be. I look at you and it’s like peering through clouded glass at my own memories. I look in the mirror and I see a stranger.”
She lifted her head, now pinning him with wide, glistening eyes. “We found each other, though, after everything we’ve been through. And despite the brutal odds, we managed to reclaim us again.
“We won’t ever be the same as the selves from before. I know that. But if there’s a chance, any chance at all, to hold on to the old parts of us, the best parts, then we shouldn’t give up on them without a fight.”
“What are you saying?”
“You loved who you were, Gil. Leading people. Fighting with all your strength to save the weak. Standing up to those who would use their power to dominate those without it. It was your entire identity . . . and you loved it. You were whole.”
“Maybe,” Gilshamed said, touched by her words, her insight into the one soul he never dared delve too deeply. “But that part of me only brought us both to ruin.”
“That was not your fault. You have to know that!”
“I do not. Had I only paid you the kind of attention you deserved, you never would have—”
“Hush now, my love. I never blamed you for trying to keep me safe from the ravages of war. I still don’t. But the young and able-bodied are not meant to sit idle while others die on their behalf. The urge to action itched strong in us all. And Voren? Voren was . . . inspirational.”
“He was,” Gilshamed admitted. “He was indeed.”
“So,” she said as she rose, hair tumbling like a silken waterfall over her shoulders. “You get up, my love. You walk out that door. You attend to your duties. You go and save the world. After all, it’s what you were born to do.”
Seeing her standing there, with hands now planted on her hips, wearing nothing but an all-too-serious gaze, Gilshamed couldn’t help but laugh. He rose from the bed, grasped her hands and pulled them to his face, planting kisses across the backs of her fingers. Spinning away, he strode to the wardrobe and began to dress, filled, for the first time in centuries, with a small but welcome measure of peace.
Tassariel stepped lightly down the corridor of an unfamiliar level of the tower. The stone walls bled cold, consuming all sound, while the lightglobes did little more than stab needles of illumination into the shadows. No other soul had yet crossed her path. She had been hesitant to follow the directions she’d been given; during her stay—however brief it was—she’d never known this place to be used.
She glanced down at her dirty caretaker’s robe, unsure if it was fitting attire. Having just come off her shift, she probably should have gone home to change first, but exhaustion pulled at her limbs, and she knew that her hammock would have been too tempting a sight to resist. Besides, her home was only really good for sleep, nowadays. Sleep, but no rest. She had no desire to see any more of it than was necessary.
Eventually, the corridor ended, splitting to either side in a broad arc that wrapped around to meet itself somewhere nearer the tower’s core. This was the fifth such round chamber she’d arrived at. Oval glass the size of her torso, spaced evenly along the inner circle, slanted inward to grant viewing of the sunken space beyond. The windows of the other chambers had been dark. These, however, glowed with faint but steady light.
Looks like I’ve finally found the right one.
Tassariel turned right at random, and was rewarded by her choice of direction less than a quarter of the way around the circle. Arivana glanced towards her as she approached.
“Tassariel!” the queen said, lips curling in obvious delight. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
The valynkar stopped three paces away and bowed. “Your Majesty.”
“Oh, abyss take your formality,” Arivana said, and before another heartbeat passed, spread her arms and lunged forward.
Cringing, Tassariel absorbed the impact, then tried to push the young woman away. “Please, I’m filthy! I couldn’t bear getting a stain on your dress. You don’t even want to know what I’m covered in!”
“What’s a little mess going to hurt anything? I won’t let it get in the way. I need a good friend too much right now to care.”
Tassariel felt the tension inside her release at the words. “Me too, I think,” she said, hugging the queen back with the same ferocity. “Me too.”
They shared a sigh, then stepped apart, though Arivana grabbed hold of one hand. “I meant to visit you at some point, once I’d heard your domicile had come to roost. How have you been? I haven’t seen you since . . .”
“Fasheshe,” Tassariel finished, having sensed a slice of hesitance in the queen’s eyes. Since before the god inside me turned everything upside down. “I’ve been . . . fine. I suppose. Busy. They needed help uprooting the domiciles, a task almost as difficult as convincing our high council it needed to be done. Then once the fighting started . . .” She shrugged, gesturing at her caretaker’s outfit.
“Noble pursuits. It’s good to stay occupied, I know. Helps take your mind off things you can’t afford to linger on. Like having Elos inside you, only to witness his death firsthand.” The queen gave her hand a squeeze. “I can’t imagine what that must have felt like.”
Tassariel squeezed back. “Probably like watching your closest confidant revealed as a betrayer.”
Arivana flinched, glancing over through the nearest window.
Tassariel followed her gaze.
At the center of the round chamber—called a “theatre” by the servants she’d talked to—rested nothing but a thin pallet, upon which sat a single figure, hazy in the half-light. Wearing what looked like a grain sack, the woman bore features that, while too close for comfort, weren’t close enough to identify as human.
Sem Aira Grusot. The one once known as Flumere.
Arivana lifted a hand to the glass, resting it there as if she could reach through and touch what lay beyond. As if that might make a difference, somehow.
“Elos,” Arivana said. “He knew right away, didn’t he? From the very first time he saw her.”
“Yes,” Tassariel replied.
A sad smile tugged at the corner of the queen’s lips, vanishing quickly. “That explains why you acted so strangely. Did he ever say why he waited so long to reveal her?”
“Never explicitly. But he was always harping about the need to keep his intentions—his knowledge, even—as close to his chest as possible. I never really understood why, though. But, in the end, I came to trust his judgment. I don’t think things would have turned out well if I’d had my way.”
“You think things turned out well?”
“No . . . perhaps not. But it could have been worse. Much worse.”
“Maybe.” Arivana lowered her hand from the window. “I find it strange that you called her a betrayer. To betray someone, you must first give them your loyalty. True loyalty. She deceived me, deceived us all, but we were merely targets to her. We weren’t ever really friends.”
“Are you sure? It didn’t seem that way. Looking back, she went far beyond what was needed to maintain her cover. She helped you, Arivana, in ways that might even be interpreted as contrary to her mission. She cared.”
The queen stared, unblinking into the theatre. “A credit to her expertise, perhaps. Nothing more.”
Tassariel averted her gaze. She didn’t know what to say. Arivana seemed to need something from her: some assurance perhaps, or even just some empathy. Whatever it was, Tassariel didn’t think she could provide it.
How can I fill another when I myself am empty?
She’d come here to meet up with an old friend, only to find them both too changed, too damaged to give the other what they needed. Some small part of her might have hoped she’d find some service to provide, but she didn’t know how to offer, and Arivana appeared too distracted to think to ask.
“I was told I could find you here.”
Tassariel jumped, then turned to face the voice. Striding down the corridor towards her was a man who looked far more comfortable in the shadows than she would ever be. Smooth, ebony skin stretched over a muscular yet compact frame, all topped by short, spiky hair.
“Draevenus,” she said.
“So you do remember me,” he said.
“Was that ever in doubt?”
He shrugged. “Our one and only meeting was brief, amidst chaos. And—pardon me for saying—I don’t think you were quite yourself at the time.”
“No,” Tassariel said, remembering the ethereal sensation as she surrendered control to Elos, watching from behind her eyes, a passenger in her own body. “But I was still able to observe everything that happened.”
“I can’t imagine,” he said, echoing Arivana’s words on the same subject.
“No. You cannot.”
“I suppose you and I are, if not unique, then the same sort of rare. Not many get to speak directly with their god.”
“The gods are dead,” she replied. “If they were even ‘gods’ to begin with.”
Draevenus clamped shut his eyes, holding his breath, and his body started to tremble, like someone suffering from an acute, powerful headache. Tassariel glanced at Arivana, who seemed just as confused by the reaction.
With a gasp, his strange state ended as quickly as it began. He took several calming breaths, then nailed her in place with his piercing brown eyes.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, inexplicably donning a smile. “If you’d like, we can discuss the nature of . . . higher beings later. If you accept my invitation, we’ll have plenty of time to talk.”
“Invitation?”
He nodded. “I’ve been asked to provide a unique service to the war effort, one which will take me deep into rukavi-held territory. However, given the nature of our enemy, it would be suicidal to go without the help of someone like yourself.”
“You mean . . . a valynkar? But why me? There are plenty to choose from.”
“None with your particular set of skills.”
Tassariel swallowed hard, feeling something rise from within her. A sweet ache, indefinable. She didn’t even know what to call it, though, and her distrust of abnormal impulses made her instinctively fight to keep it in check. “My calling. It can’t be that rare. I’m sure—”
“I won’t find another as able-bodied, or as experienced in their craft.
“Nor will I find someone so wasted in their current line of service.”
“But—”
“Please, Tassariel. There is no other that can do this task half so well. I need you.”
The bubble inside her burst, and she realized, now, what it meant. What it was trying to tell her.
This is the purpose you’ve been lacking. This is what you need.
And yet . . .
“Behind enemy lines?” she asked. “Just the two of us? Hundreds of leagues from anyone that could come to our aid?”
“That’s right.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Extremely.”
Tassariel smiled. “Count me in.”
Draevenus simply nodded, then turned around to walk back the way he came. She hugged Arivana, somehow even more fervently than their first, as they both said their tearful goodbyes, then stalked off after her new partner as he disappeared down the darkened hallway.
Vashodia took her eyes off the approaching daeloth to watch a snake as it slithered nearer. Fully elongated, it would barely reach from finger to outstretched finger, far too small to consider her for its next meal. Having done nothing to disturb its hunting ground, she couldn’t think why it would advance on her with such obvious fixation.
“Perhaps you think me a kindred spirit?” she said, examining the scales adorning her arms. “But yours are too small, too square, too bright. And I, alas, do not have any kin. I’m the last of my kind. Unique. The rest of them were too short-sighted, fretting over the mostly superficial drawbacks, to fully appreciate all that immortality has to offer.”
She squatted as it came closer still. A forked tongue flicked in and out of a wide head that stayed arrow straight despite its body’s weaving. Eyes sharp as the diamonds suggested by its green-and-yellow pattern seemed to peer into her soul. She reached out a hand. The snake hesitated a beat, then crawled up her bare arm. Its smooth belly rhythmically scraped across her coarse, dry scales, coiling about limbs and torso alike until the last tip of its tail disappeared beneath her robe. Vashodia found the sensation . . . pleasing.
She straightened—not too quickly of course—as the daeloth pushed aside a hanging branch and came to stand beside her beneath a vine-choked tree.
“Good morning, Feralt,” she said. “I’m so very glad you decided to keep our appointment.”
“It was that or end up on your bad side,” Feralt said, flicking back his perfectly groom hair. “Wasn’t much of a choice.”
“And what makes you think you aren’t there already?”
He stepped back, eyes widening as he stuttered over a reply.
“Now, now,” she said, “you’re a pretty enough boy, Feralt—if far too old for my tastes—but wearing stupor so plain on your face ruins what little charm you have.”
“I—I don’t understand. I did everything you asked!”
“Everything?”
Somehow, he blanched even further. “Look, I tried, all right? It’s not easy getting a virgin to open up her legs. And even if I could have forced the matter along, you told me explicitly not to. What was I supposed to do?”
Vashodia sighed. “Oh, nothing of course. The fault was as much mine as it was yours. Your success would have granted me an excellent means of control, but even your failure gave me key insight into her resolve. Into her—” Vashodia snorted “—passion.”
Feralt exhaled deeply. “You’re not mad at me, then?”
“Mad? No. But neither am I entirely pleased.”
She shook her arm, and the snake poked its head out the end of her sleeve. She gripped it by the neck, holding it up before the daeloth’s quivering face.
“A tool,” she began, “is only good so long as it’s in your grasp, carefully handled to prevent it from wearing out or being used for other purposes. Someone smart can deploy it any way they wish, over—” she touched the reptilian lips to Feralt’s temple “—and over—” his cheek “—and over—” his neck.
She stepped back and began wriggling her fingers before the gaping yet immobile jaws. “But once you lose control—” She let go. The snake darted out, fangs puncturing through the meaty part of her hand, eliciting a gasp from her throat. “—even the best tools have a tendency to strike where you least expect.”
She flung the snake away. It slithered into the underbrush, vanishing in beats.
Feralt wiped a hand across his forehead; it came away acrid and drenched. “Wh-what do you want from me?”
“Well, seeing as how you tried to curry favor by volunteering for an assignment—which you failed—it’s only appropriate that you owe me a favor in return.”
“A favor? Sure. Anything you want. Just ask and it’ll be done. I swear.”
Vashodia smiled. “Keep an ear out, then. You’ll be hearing from me soon.”
Feralt stood there a moment, too stupid to realize he’d been dismissed. Vashodia rolled her eyes and had to flick the backs of her hands at him twice before he got the hint. He spun on his heel, but paused before taking a step and looked back over his shoulder.
“Was that thing . . . venomous?”
A stinging, virulent burn was rising up her veins, only a few beats from entering her heart. “Quite,” she answered. “And a flavor I’ve never tried before. What a productive morning it’s been!”
Eyes flaring, he faced forward and ran.
Vashodia giggled.
Energizing, she probed her insides with dark power, surrounding and isolating the insipid liquid. She let it run its course as she analyzed the effects, savoring each wave of pain it delivered whilst keeping it away from anything vital. A most productive morning indeed.
With a sigh, she scoured the rest of it clean from her blood, lest it do any permanent damage, and began skipping along through the tangled jungle. Birds chirped and cawed in counterpoint to the incessantly buzzing insects, and a great cat growled in the distance. She was surprised at how wild nature was allowed to be, even here within a league of the city. An amusing dichotomy. And, to be honest, she understood the allure of surrounding oneself with danger on all sides.
No better way to feel alive.
She came clear of the stifling canopy, spotting the city filling half the horizon. Even from here she could make out the phoenix statue, ever shining, and the sphere of darkness blotting out its nose, which she’d left active in her absence. No point letting people know she was away from the nest.
Focusing her eyes on the sight, she shadow-dashed towards it.
Wind and cold and dark greeted her arrival, all changes that were welcome. The intruder, whom she noticed a beat later, was not.
Jasside raised an eyebrow, appearing not the least bit surprised by Vashodia’s sudden appearance. “Busy morning?” she asked.
Vashodia smoothed out her robe, still unbalanced from the lengthy jump. “Perhaps. Are you checking up on me now?”
“And what if I am? You’ve haven’t exactly been—” Jasside paused, inhaling deeply then softening on the slow exhale. “I came,” she began again, “to see how you were doing. If you needed anything. I know I haven’t been a very attentive apprentice lately, and for that I’m sorry.”
“An apology? My, my. Someone must want a favor from me very badly.”
“Not a favor exactly. Just wondering if you had any insights about the ruvak. Something that might help us fight them, or at least understand them a little better.”
“And what makes you think I’d have anything of the sort?”
Jasside shrugged. “I’ve been too busy fighting, which—” She stopped herself again, flashing a tight, unhumorous grin. “Which doesn’t allow much time for . . . meditations.”
Vashodia returned an equally mirthless smile. Truth be told, she hadn’t learned much about them at all, a faulty situation this morning’s adventure would work to rectify. She couldn’t tell Jasside about any of that, of course. No master—or mistress, in her case—ever wished to look less than efficacious in their pupil’s sight.
And I certainly do not plan on starting now.
Dark chords struck inside her mind: her machines singing their song. Perfectly on schedule.
“I might have learned one thing,” Vashodia said. “And a rather pertinent bit of news at that.”
“What is it?”
“The ruvak are smart, it seems. They’ve figured out who controls all the little pieces of scattered humanity that dare to stand against them. They’re on their way right now to eliminate those who hand out the orders.”
Jasside hissed in a breath. “You can’t mean they’re coming—”
“Here,” Vashodia said. “By this time tomorrow, a fleet larger than all the rest you’ve faced combined will be at Panisahldron’s doorstep.” She giggled. “I think it’s about time we meet!”