EPILOGUE

South of the Eastmaw Mountains

AS RICCAN CARRIERI CRESTED the hill and looked down at the weeks-old carnage below, his breath caught in his chest.

“Canta rising,” he whispered.

“I told you, sir. The tiellans are gone, and they left nothing but destruction in their wake.” Ambria, the telenic who had accompanied him at what his troops were now calling the battle of the Rihnemin just over two weeks ago, stood next to him. They had tied their horses to trees in a thicket at the other side of the hill on which they now stood, overlooking the battlefield.

“May I ask why you wanted to come here, Grand Marshal?”

Carrieri frowned, taking deep breaths through his mouth. The stench had hit them both before they’d even dismounted, and death was strong in the air, now. “I needed to see for myself.”

Rotting corpses, tiellan and human, littered the field. But the most striking landmarks were the dozens of Outsider bodies, blackened and deformed.

“The Outsiders were… were burned?” Carrieri asked.

“Melted, more like,” Ambria said. “No idea how it happened. Closest thing I can think of are some rumors we’ve heard from Maven Kol about people who’ve learned to manipulate fire, but there’s been nothing of that sort north of the Taimin Mountains. Not that we’ve heard of, anyway.”

“It seems now you have,” Carrieri said.

Something still did not seem right to him, however. He had left the tiellans to die with the intent of returning with a larger force later to defeat what remained of the Outsiders, but quickly his spies had told him what had happened. The Outsiders had all been killed; somehow, the tiellans had been victorious against them, and lived to fight another day. He did not know how they had done it—whether Winter had performed some psimantic trick, or something else altogether—but the aftermath was clear.

“How many tiellan survivors?” Carrieri asked.

“No way to be sure, Grand Marshal,” Ambria said, “but we estimate a few thousand at most.”

“A few thousand,” Carrieri repeated. A few thousand could not possibly stand against the might of Khale’s army—even what remained of it. But he had not thought they could stand against the Outsiders, either, and he had been woefully mistaken on that particular point. Riccan Carrieri was beginning to see why the tiellans had given Publio Kyfer such trouble.

“Keep gathering intelligence,” Carrieri said. “We need to know the tiellan position, their numbers, and, if possible, what they are capable of at all times.”

“And what of our forces?” Ambria asked.

Carrieri raised an eyebrow at the woman’s use of “our.” She was a Cantic psimancer, after all. Not technically part of the Legion.

But, truthfully, he shared the sentiment. To face what was coming—whether tiellan, daemonic, or otherwise—Carrieri could not shake the feeling that they needed to band together as many people as possible.

“We outnumber the tiellans, that much is sure. But I do not think we can risk meeting them in open battle anymore. Better we let time do our work for us.” Some would call him cowardly. Others would berate him for letting the tiellans run free throughout Khale, but they had not seen what he had seen.

The last thing the Khalic Legion wanted to do now was engage the tiellans in open battle, and Carrieri would be sure to affirm that it never happened again.

Not until he was ready.

Imperial palace, Izet

Empress Cova Amok sat on the throne in the council chamber, contemplating all of the information now before her.

“Your Grace,” Andia said quietly, “the Council awaits your decision.”

“Give me a moment, Andia,” Cova said. This was not a decision she wanted to make lightly. But the chance to exact revenge on the nation that had oppressed them for decades was too clear.

Then, Cova Amok stood. The members of the Ruling Council turned to face her, as did every other eye in the overflowing council chamber. Cova counted three empty chairs. Word of the happenings in Khale had spread quickly.

“In light of recent events,” Cova began, “I have come to a decision. The tiellan rebellion in Khale has changed things. While I do not necessarily agree with the logic, I know many of you would say that this was why our ancestors exiled the race from our empire completely. Whatever you believe, one thing is clear. The tiellans have provided us with an opportunity.”

“What of the tiellans themselves?” Arstan Dagnatar, Roden’s merchant leader, asked. “Would they not present as much an obstacle for us as they do for Khale? We are the ones that murdered and banished their kind, after all. One would think their rage against Roden would be greater.”

“The tiellans’ focus is upon their own home; they will direct their wrath at Triah. We must attack while our enemy is divided, and fighting itself. The tiellans will be crushed by Khale eventually, and Khale, weakened from the fight, will fall to us.”

“And the tiellan commander?” the high priestess asked. “Is that… is that the tiellan woman that your father held in custody here?”

You mean to ask whether, by releasing her, I caused this tiellan rebellion.

“I imagine we will soon find out. We have discussed a campaign against Khale for many years, now, but the time has never been right. Now, the tiellans have made the time right for us.

“We will rally our banners; we will call upon Andrinar and the Island Coalition to add their might to ours.

“We will take our ships, and sail to Triah itself. We will strike at the heart of the Khalic nation, and do what so many of our ancestors wished they could have done.

“We will conquer the greatest nation, and the greatest city, on the Sfaera.”

Baetrissa’s Cathedral, Mavenil

Funerals are always a bleak business, Alain thought. Especially when it’s the funeral of someone close to you. Someone you thought, one day, you might love. Someone you thought might love you back.

He stood in the back of Baetrissa’s Cathedral, despite his misgivings. The coffin was simple, dark wood. The pews were filled to overflowing. Outside the chapel, more people crowded around and back into the streets of Mavenil. Alain suspected this was one of the largest funerals in the history of Maven Kol.

The Cantic high priestess lit a candle at the shrine, then took her place at the pulpit, throwing back the hood of her robe.

“We gather here together,” she said, her voice low and carrying, “to mourn the passing of a soul who knew the meaning of sacrifice. We mourn our great king, Gainil Destrinar-Kol, and celebrate his life and reign.”

Alain smiled, turned, and walked out of the cathedral. He did not need to be here for this. He’d made his peace with Gainil.

Heedless of the stares and judging looks, he wove through the crowd on the street, pushing his way back and, eventually, out of the city.

She was waiting for him outside the city gates.

“Didn’t want to stay ’til the end?” Morayne asked. She didn’t smile. Her throat still bore the angry red marks of Lailana’s grip, the pain of it etched clearly on her face. Recovery would be a long time coming.

“I’ve never liked endings. You gave my letter to Sev?”

She nodded, lifting a pack at her feet and handing it to him. “I did. You’ve officially resigned the kingship and given power to the Denizens. You are now the second king in history to give up his crown.”

Alain took his pack, hefting it by the straps. Heavy, and solid. He liked the feel of it.

“It won’t be easy for the Denizens, at first. It may never be easy for them. Many nobles will resist. Some of the commoners won’t want the responsibility. Blood will still be shed.”

“It will,” Morayne said. “But it’s the right thing to do.”

Alain was about to slip the pack over his shoulders when Morayne stopped him. “We have a long journey ahead of us,” she said. “And a lot of work to do.”

“True,” Alain said. He looked into her eyes. “We’ll probably never finish. We can seek all the Triggers we want, but we’ll never find them all. And the ones we do… who knows whether we can even help them?” It would be as impossible as pouring the desert sands into a glass. And yet, this time, Alain embraced the impossibility of it.

“We can start, one person at a time,” Morayne said. “Brother Maddagon’s work will go beyond him, and then beyond us.”

Take what you’ve learned, what you are, and share that with others.

Alain had a thought. “I’m broken,” he said quietly.

Morayne snorted. “Tell me about it.”

“I’m broken,” Alain repeated, “and that’s all right.”

This time she met his eyes. “I know. So am I. And that’s all right.”

Alain smiled. Bloody bones, it felt good to say that out loud.

He tried to slip his pack on again, but once more, she stopped him.

“What?” he asked.

“We have a long journey ahead of us,” she repeated. “We should probably stretch before we begin.”

That brought a smile to Alain’s lips, and joy to his heart.

Alain leaned down and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around him, and they stood there for a moment, fitting together perfectly.

“Now we can go,” she said, picking up her own pack.

Alain finally slipped his over his shoulders, the weight heavy but bearable, the smile still on his face.

The flames were still there, in the back of his mind. Panic still simmered in his gut. But he did not worry about them anymore. He still could not handle them; he’d never been able to do that. But there was something greater out there that could.

Morayne still did not return his smile. Not yet. But, he’d decided, that was his life’s mission. To see that third smile. And the fourth. And the fifth and sixth, and so on, into the rest of their lives.