Fulfillment

Softly glowing globes staggered across the walls like pearls on a fine dress. The air was cool as a cellar. Startled, Elekia looked up from a flat platform in a strange room at a console studded with many hundreds of knobs and gems and levers. White walls bent around them in irregular curves instead of perfect hexagons. The dais, the ramp leading to the doorway, the Kragnashian who guarded the Device in Direiellene were . . . missing. The fear that had fired her blood during the battle turned to cold dread.

“You’ve never been here before,” Geram said.

“No.” She helped him to his feet. He grimaced and expelled a long, slow breath, working to relax the muscles of his face. His next inhalation stuttered, but his grip was strong as they stepped off the platform, hand in hand.

On tiptoes, she peered over the top of the console. Dozens of blue and green gems shone in the pale light, knobs and levers pulled this way and that. She should have realized there could be more than one master Device—why should the only one be in Direiellene? The consequences of this mistake—bile clambered up her throat. Eyes tearing, she said, “If I can make some sense out of this, we can go back.”

“Wait. I think . . .” He cocked his head. “Ashel is coming. I think he’s coming here.” He drew her away from the console. “The Kragnashians in Traine turned on Parnden and helped Lornk win.”

Her throat closed on gall. “That does not put my mind at ease.”

“They said they ‘fight for Victory.’ They . . .” He shivered. “They touched Ashel. It was . . . disconcerting, but he trusts them.” His grip tightened. “Elesendar, a lot happened while we were . . . in between. I don’t know how long we were there.”

A panel opened in the wall beyond the console, and a Kragnashian wearing a stole of copper fiber ducked inside. “Dealmaker. Slayer. Welcome. We considered keeping you away, but in honor of the One, we will permit you to witness the changing of the world.”

Elekia stared at the creature, dread pebbling her skin. Squaring her shoulders, she replied with staccato claps. “We will not submit to you.”

Eyes whirling red and green, it loomed closer, antennae twitching. “You would have doomed your species.” The antennae came to rest on her forehead, conveying fierce, blood-boiling resentment. Jerking away, she clapped defiance. “You should never have supported Meylnara in her time.”

The Kragnashian reared, eyes turning a fiery yellow. “The Center in Direiellene would have saved the Oppressor. My lineage honors the treaty of the First!”

Elekia’s heart stuttered. “If that is so, why would the Center in Direiellene have given Vic the power to destroy Meylnara?”

The rival Kragnashian’s antennae revolved in slow circles. “Our lineage discovered the One and the Fulcrum in the desert. Our lineage brought them to Direiellene so the Center could not refuse to deliver the Waters of the Dead to the One. The Direiellene lineage would have left the One and Fulcrum lost in the desert. They would have let them die.”

Elekia shook her head. “No. No—you’re lying.” The Direiellene Center had promised to bring her daughters home . . . if she submitted to it. “Where is the Direiellene Center?”

“Dead. The world changes, Dealmaker. The Voice and the Traveler arrive to bear witness.”

Trembling, she shrank back as two hazy forms took shape and solidified. Ashel stepped off the dais, drawing a young woman with him. Elekia remembered her as the Listener whom Bethniel had taken to Olmlablaire.

“Hello, Mother.” Dried blood speckled Ashel’s face. The black stubble covering his chin was threaded with gray. Deep beneath her fear, she felt a terrible sadness for all he’d suffered. More than anything, she wanted to hold and comfort him as she had the night Sashal was murdered, but the pain in his eyes held her at bay. Swallowing, she crossed her arms as two more shapes shimmered on the dais. One was a ragged young stranger. The other was Lornk.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise for me, although I suspect less so for you, Elekia.” His clothes were spattered with blood, and an angry red weal encircled his neck. Yet clean-shaven, with his eyes like ocean depths, he reminded her acutely of the young man she’d loved long ago, not the filthy wretch she had taunted in prison. Cheeks burning, she dug her fingernails into her fists.

Lornk offered a short bow to Geram. “Eminence.”

“Commissar.” His shoulders perfectly squared toward Lornk, Geram returned the bow, making his a hairsbreadth deeper, as a regent ought to a head of state. In all the chaos of her feelings, Elekia felt a flash of pride.

Lornk gestured at the Kragnashian. “May I introduce the Center of the Free Peoples and the descendant of the lineage who will be sending your daughter and Victoria home, if all goes well with History.”

“The world changes,” the Center said. “When the forest of Direiellene was destroyed, the lineages fought over whether we should reclaim the lands given to the humans. Our lineage prevailed, and we destroyed those who would break the promise made to the First. We killed their nymphs and larvae and their egg layers and drones. We made the warriors and workers our slaves, and when they died, we sold their skins and their blood to the humans. That was how much we valued the word given to the First.”

Elekia exchanged bewildered looks with the others.

“It isn’t talking about the Caleisbahn First,” said Geram, voicing their doubts.

“It means Craig Nash,” said the stranger. “He made first contact with the Kragnashians and negotiated landing rights with them.”

“Time passed, and my lineage took up habitation along the borders of this land, and we grew numerous and wealthy through trade with your people. Yet the lineage of the Oppressor remained in the heart of the land, recovering their numbers more slowly, rebuilding the city of Direiellene, and keeping alive the memory of magic by giving the Waters of the Dead to any human who came to them. That was how they honored the bargain of the First. Yet when your people outlawed magic, when the numbers of wizards dwindled to none, the Oppressor’s People began to believe humans could not be trusted to honor their contracts.

“This they did not say openly, for our own lineage still outnumbered them. Yet as the City was rebuilt, and crops were sown inside the domes, and warm-blooded animals were husbanded, the Oppressor’s lineage multiplied and sought to dominate our own. The Concordance is here. The world changes. We must wait to see the outcome.”

The Center ushered them into an antechamber furnished with white cushions, molded out of their larvae’s excretions. One hand pressed to his ribs, Geram sat down, and the Listener settled beside him, mumbling, “She lives, she lives.”

“Craig Nash,” Ashel said, a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “I should have thought of that.”

“I suspect he must have been the first wizard,” said Lornk. “The Logs say he went mad before he died a withering death. Wineyll, what is Victoria doing?”

“She lives.” The young woman drew in a sharp breath. “She knows what to do! She’s going to save the trees.”

Elekia winced. She had no idea what was happening. Her chin high, her eyebrows arched, she projected calm, but inside she quailed with terror. She had made agreements with the wrong Center. How could she not know there was more than one?

Wineyll moaned, and Ashel knelt beside her and clasped her hands. While they conferred in whispers, Elekia looked everywhere but at Lornk.

Screaming, the Listener bolted to her feet, eyes and mouth wide, then collapsed.

The Kragnashian threw back its head, trilling with victory. “The Oppressor is dead! The world changes. Come and behold the changing of the world!”

It flowed out of the room. Leaving the men clustered around the swooning woman, Elekia followed the Kragnashian. A few steps up a sloping passageway, she heard Lornk behind her. His scent stirring old sensations, she did not dare look at him.

The air grew warmer, drier, as they strode uphill, and a hot wind slapped her face when they walked onto a platform jutting out over steeply sloped sands. All across the face of the dune, Kragnashians stood silhouetted at other openings, softly trilling.

Stars flooded the sky. The wind died, and trilling filled the silence, growing louder as clouds spread like ink. Lightning sharp, rain plunged in sheets. A dark smudge appeared, growing larger with each flash, spreading toward the bunker at frightening speed. Puzzled, Elekia stared at the oncoming shadow. “What is it?”

“Our salvation,” replied the Center, its antennae pointing straight up.

“The future,” Lornk added, his voice thick.

Elekia’s eyes darted to his face and away, his passion reminding her acutely, painfully of the boy she’d loved. Rolling closer, the black shape resolved into the ragged shapes of trees. Massive trunks and shrubs climbed out of the soil, growing more distinct through the shearing rain. A low rumble built toward thunder. Alarm spurring her heart, Elekia nudged the Center. “Bring your People inside the bunker,” she clapped as shrubs and trees clawed toward them.

The Center uttered a long, piercing whistle and pressed a panel, closing a fibrous door on the horrible advance of the trees. Elekia backed down the passageway, wondering what the return of the rainforest could mean. Around them, walls trembled as the woods reached the exterior of the bunker.

“Our bargain is sealed?” Lornk clapped at the Kragnashian.

“It is sealed. Deliveries will be made to the seamen and the nomads.” The Center swept away toward the antechamber.

Elekia grabbed Lornk’s arm. “What have you done?”

His teeth gleamed. “Saved humanity—and ensured my place in history. And I have you to thank, my wife.”

A violent chill shook her spine. “Do not call me that.”

Grin melting, Lornk put his hand over hers. Her pulse throbbed, even as she wanted to squirm away from him. Fool, she swore at herself.

He released her with a shake of his head. “This gulf between us. Has too much happened to bridge it?”

The pressure behind her eyes melted, and her lips twitched toward a smile. “I was going to have you executed.”

He chuckled. “No harm done, my wife.”

The sad warmth of loss bloomed in her chest. What if they had declared that spring day so long ago? What triumphs and heartaches would she have known? The Kragnashian said the world had changed. Yet she remembered being seventeen, preparing for Fembrosh, being desperately in love with a handsome boy from Traine but knowing too that marrying him, she would never realize her own worth to the world. “I could never have been your wife.”

“And now you’re an outlaw.”

“And you are Commissar of Betheljin.”

A mischievous grin tilted his lips. “Wizardry is not illegal in Betheljin.”

“You’re not asking me now, are you?” She laughed and sauntered down the passage, contemplating the repercussions of this day. The Kragnashian said Meylnara was dead, and yet the forest was back. The world changed. Direiellene dry sand, an unending desert—she seemed to remember it that way, yet that memory was like a dream. The forest had always been there, hadn’t it? She thought of the history of the Council, how they had gone to war against a rogue wizard. After months of stalemate, the Wizard Thabean was executed for breaking the Code, and his heir was chosen to represent the Council in a final duel with the rogue. Thabean’s heir. The Heir.

A scream ripped out of her. She pitched forward onto hands and knees, wailed as her forehead met the floor. Her heart stuttered in her chest. Her lungs struggled for breath. Hands gripped her shoulders, a voice nagged her ear, but the words could not reach her. “My daughter,” she moaned. “My child.” The final payment for Sashal’s throne had been made.

* * *

Wineyll screamed, eyes wide, and crumpled. Ashel slid an arm round her, shook her gently. Her head hung loosely between her shoulders. “Can you do anything?” he asked Geram.

The Center announced that Meylnara was dead, and his mother and Lornk followed it out. Geram laid his hand on Wineyll’s head, and her eyes fluttered open. Woozily, she sat up.

“What happened?” Ashel asked.

She looked at him, at Geram, her eyes wet. “They’re coming home,” she said aloud, her voice thick.

“Vic?” he asked, voice cracking.

She shook her head and spoke aloud. “I’m so sorry. Bethniel’s gone.”

Ashel stared at her, certain he’d heard wrong. This was a mistake—Bethniel? Wineyll murmured condolences, and Ashel tried to understand. Geram believed her. Samson touched his heart and spread his fingers toward Ashel. He blinked at all of them. Bethniel? Geram’s certainty grew, not just a faith in Wineyll’s word, but in his own understanding of history. Ashel’s mouth and brows twisted as he resisted a shifting of memory and knowledge. There was no record of a Wizard Bethniel, was there?

The room rumbled and silt sifted through the ceiling. He stood, took a step toward the doorway after his mother, aching to say something but finding no words. The Center returned and went into the room housing the Device. Ashel gestured at it, turned back to the others, reached out with his hands and dropped them. Bethniel?

His mother’s wail drew him. In the passageway, she curled on the floor, Lornk’s hands on her shoulders, his mouth next to her ear.

“Let her go,” Ashel said. He cupped her cheek. “Mother?”

“No,” she moaned, lifting a tear-streaked face. “This isn’t what I wanted.”

“I know.” He pulled her into his arms, holding her with the same fierce affection they’d shared when Sashal died. Bethniel . . . he couldn’t understand why he was surprised. All the histories had spoken of a young wizard by that name, killing Meylnara in a duel, and dying in the effort. When they learned Vic and his sister were in Direiellene of the past, why hadn’t they expected this would happen?

Death always comes as a shock, Geram said.

Arms tight round his mother, Ashel led her to the antechamber. Her feet dragged. Each breath was a coughing wail. His sister was gone. He couldn’t fathom it. It was what was supposed to happen, but it made no sense.

They sat. Mother’s weeping slowly quieted, and he felt Geram’s longing to comfort her. Kissing her forehead, he stood, and Mother curled into the other man’s arms.

Thank you, Geram said.

Be with her while you can.

Mother grabbed his hand. Her eyes were swollen and streaked with red, her face mottled. “I am so sorry,” she whispered aloud. “This is my doing—your sister, your wife. It’s my fault.”

Each beat of his heart was an ache in his chest, but it was sorrow, not anger. Whatever she had done . . . it didn’t matter. “It is history, Mother. It’s no one’s fault.”

She crumpled against Geram, and Ashel turned to Wineyll. “Where is Vic?”

Her face was pinched with sadness. “On her way to the Device, in that time. It won’t be long now. They’re nearly there.”

In the room with the Device, the Center stood over the controls, touching knobs and levers with its antennae and forelegs. Beneath its stole, its wings fluttered, shining silver filaments peeking in and out from under its carapace.

“It says the world has changed. But it feels no different,” Lornk said.

Ashel looked down at his hands, turning them from palm to back again. On his right hand, the skin was folded over his knuckles, a stump with a thumb only. He clearly remembered Sashal’s assassination, the war, the time he’d spent in Olmlablaire, and everything Lornk had done to him in an effort to control Vic. None of these memories seemed odd or new to him. Why was he surprised about Bethniel?

Lornk’s eyes rested on the maimed hand. “I regret being unable to forgive your mother and father. I regret that my vengeance fell on you.”

Ashel loosed a bitter guffaw.

“The palazzo, the mines, they are all still yours.”

“Vic would never live in Traine.”

An eyebrow went up. “Perhaps after you explain how things have changed . . . you never know.”

“Do not mistake alliance for allegiance,” he’d said. Ashel glanced at Samson, thought of all the Oreseekers and outcasts who had fought in Vic’s name. Their enemies’ blood stained his clothes, crusted his face. Did he or Vic owe them any more? He was banished and Vic outlawed from a life in Latha, but a home on the Semena side of Mora was still possible.

“There is work to be done in Betheljin,” Lornk pressed. “I plan to build a new society, one that will regain the knowledge and skills our people have lost since Landing. We will need people like you and your wife. People who remember.”

What Ashel remembered was another offer: denounce his parents and acknowledge Lornk as his father, and Lornk’s torturer would stop burning the flesh off his hands. Refusing Lornk, in the midst of that agony, had been the hardest thing he had ever done. He wouldn’t have succeeded without Geram’s help, nor would he have succeeded in resisting Lornk again, months later, when Lornk had chopped off his fingers. Remember, he told himself, turning his gaze toward the Device, Lornk did that, not Vic. Not Vic. His wife was on her way home. Tears spilled, a gush of hope. Not Vic. At last, he forgave her.

“She’s coming.” Wineyll ducked a shoulder under Elekia’s arm, helped Geram support her as they moved toward the Device. His mother walked like a woman twice her age, her steps small and tottering. Geram bore her weight despite the broken ribs grinding into the walls of his chest. Ashel felt a sharp echo of that pain, but his heart ached more for sight of his wife.

A mist coalesced into shapes; shapes became forms; forms became people. A man—the cavalier who had disappeared with Bethniel—cradled her body. Mother sprang forward and held her cheeks, moaning.

Gustave stumbled off the platform, a bandaged stump dripping. Samson caught him, and a gap-toothed smile lit the pirate’s face.

The last swirl of mist became Vic. She stood on the dais, still as a statue, eyes wide and frightened of the world, just as he’d first seen her, in the square in Traine. Mud and blood tangled into her hair, her face was ruddy, eyes bruised. They fell on him, and her lips quivered around the borders of a smile. Ashel felt what she felt—grief, but relief and joy too. She was here. They drew closer. The rank smell of her was perfume to him, the rough fibers of her clothing the finest satin, and her ratted hair, that sunlight that had warmed his memories, was silk in his fingers. She was here. She was in his arms, and he was whole again.