There was no author’s name on the volume I read aloud from, no title to distinguish it from the rest. An interview with Istera’s head librarian revealed that it was the oldest manuscript they had, preceding the next version of the Blade that Soars legend by many years and dispelling any theories that it was a corruption of a previous text. The manuscript talked about other beloved stories—the lives of the Five Great Heroes, early battles between Tresean and Daanorian epics—but with barely a word changed.
“Vernasha of the Roses wrote the version of the narrative we know today,” Althy mused thoughtfully.
“Are you suggesting she changed it deliberately?” Kalen asked, and Likh gasped at the implication. “But why?”
“She may have had access to other documents since lost to time. She ruled Ankyo, after all. And as the city’s first asha, she would have vetted most of its books.” Althy turned to Councilor Ludvig. “Are there any experts in ancient legends still living in Istera?”
The man thought for a few moments, stroking at his beard. “I can think of one, yes. Garindor Sverrthiya lives in Farsun and is the preeminent historian when it comes to asha mythology.”
“Garindor? That’s not an Isteran name,” said Kalen.
“It isn’t. Garindor originally came from Drycht. He sought refuge here many years ago.”
“That’s some refuge,” Likh said. “Istera is about the farthest kingdom from Drycht as one can get.”
“It is a disgrace that Drycht do not honor their intellectuals the same way we do in Kion,” Councilor Ludvig agreed. “Drycht has always been a paradise for despots. When King Aadil wrested power from King Adhitaya and the royal house of Narsethi, politics changed drastically. King Adhitaya was not himself a good man, as you might know. When the revolution happened, he was killed, and his son Omid went missing. In his first few years of rule, Aadil showed signs of intelligence, of enlightenment. The kingdom enjoyed a golden age of song and stories. Though that changed soon enough. I shall talk to Rendor and see what he can do to assist us in making contact with Garindor.”
“Your hunch was right all along, little uchenik,” Rahim remarked with a nod toward me, as the Isteran adviser left us. “Even in Tresea, I grew up on tales of Blade that Soars and the villainy of Hollow Knife. It seems inconceivable that this was a lie.”
“But why?” Likh was still shaken. “Why would Vernasha change her story?”
“We don’t know yet, Likh,” Althy said gently. “Let us see what Lord Garindor has to say before passing judgment.”
Likh’s shoulders slumped. “Vernasha of the Roses was a peerless warrior! She was Kion’s first asha!”
“Did you know her well enough to say that, little one?” Rahim asked. “Did she tell you her favorite colors, her favorite dress? It’s easy to look at a hero and deny their human flaws. Many heroes in my childhood were blackguards in their own right, and the only reason they are lauded still is because they are but Tresean.” The large man frowned. “But this too is a question I would like answered.”
“And that doesn’t change what being an asha is all about.” Khalad’s voice was soft, hushed by the cold and tempered in the presence of old books. He put his hand on Likh’s shoulder. “You can’t honor the past if you don’t know what that past is. I would much rather know the truth than live in ignorant bliss, even if it destroys all I’ve come to believe. Tradition isn’t always honorable. If it was, then you’d have been an asha for years, without opposition.”
Likh stared at him. The colors in his heartsglass swirled rapidly, and I thought he would speak. But Khalad’s hand was only a friendly gesture, and the oblivious Heartforger could not hear the wanting in Likh’s silence, his unspoken confession.
The young boy-asha only nodded, bidding his heart to be silent. I exhaled, releasing a quiet breath I had not realized I was holding. It required everything not to intervene. It took Kalen and I years to breathe in the same rhythm. They would find their own pace.
“How are you feeling?” Kalen asked me quietly, so no others could hear.
I closed my eyes briefly. “If Aenah was right about this story, then what if she was right about everything?” The book of powerful runes the Faceless had given me remained in Mykaela’s possession, but I already knew the spells within by heart. The elders knew them too, Aenah had claimed, but had hidden their knowledge. The elders teach you the necessary runes to put down daeva and risk your life for their cause. The woman was long-since dead, but the words she taunted me with remained. Why would they teach you the very runes that would allow you to rise above them?
My heartsglass was silver. How long before Aenah’s other prediction came to pass? When would my heart fade to black and gives itself to darkness?
Kalen smiled. “Whatever the truth, we will find it,” he said simply, confidently, and I believed him.
• • •
That Garindor Sverrthiya lived in Farsun was not entirely accurate; he lived in a small house on the outskirts of the city, bordering the Runeswoods. It was at his insistence, Councilor Ludvig explained, and not because of any Isteran enmity.
A pale-faced, sickly-looking lad of about twenty answered our knock. Althy glanced at his heartsglass and rolled up her sleeves. “Off to bed you go, young man.”
The boy stared. “I…I don’t…”
“No back talk. You’re ill with fever, and you shouldn’t be up. Where’s your master?”
“Right here.” A white-haired Drychta came into view, looking fitter and healthier than his assistant. His heartsglass hung from a plain leather cord, pulsing a soft purple. He looked surprised to see us, then focused on Councilor Ludvig. “What is going on, milord?”
“My apologies for the intrusion, Garindor. We have visitors from Kion who require your expertise, and it is a matter of urgency.”
“A matter of urgency, eh?” The man adjusted his spectacles. “And asha too, by the look of some of you. As my expertise lies in the past, which requires no hurrying, it’s a strange petition indeed. I am sorry for my assistant, Yarrod. He has been ill the last few days and should’ve been resting.”
“I will see to that immediately, Lord Garindor,” Althy promised. “You all go ahead while I tend to him.”
Garindor led us deeper into the house, which was filled with the oddest assortment of contraptions and bric-a-brac. Three-headed statues stared coldly down at us from high shelves, and small paintings depicted scenes of both cruel and unusual beauty—a magnificent giant of a deity stomping on an army of dying soldiers, seven-tusked elephants burst from the ground to destroy crops and livestock—all painted in bright, almost garish colors. Cruel-looking weapons of old decorated the walls.
Garindor smiled at our reactions. “This was why I chose to sequester myself from the rest of the city. Isterans are a kind and noble people, but they do not understand why I keep these instruments of destruction, even if only for study.” He sighed. “I abhor Drychta policy as much as they, having lived through many of them myself. But it is difficult to rid yourself of a festering that has been ingrained into your very bones. It is not a contradiction to try to make sense of a culture that you criticize with all your being. Would you mind if I smoke? I have some very good Adra-al cigars.”
None of us minded, and Ludvig even accepted one. “We were told you know much of asha mythology,” he began, puffing at his cheroot.
“Ah, that I did. It was one of the reasons I was chased out of Drycht. To venerate women, they said, is to diminish men. How one can lead to the other is a question they have not yet answered, if you discount the threats on my life when they had nothing else to say.” Garindor settled himself on one of the ratty chairs in the room, toeing a few parchments out of the way, and indicated that we should do the same. “What can I do for you?”
“My name is Tea.”
“Tea?” Garindor leaned forward, his eyes wide. “Begging any offense, milady, but I have heard of you. You are the Dark asha who tames daeva, as Sakmeet had…but you tame the fiercest daeva. They call you Tea of the Embers—a sign of respect, of course. Your azi is mostly responsible for such a title, being quite a striking creature. It is an honor to meet you. Lords Kalen and Khalad I know of, and the famous Rahim Arrankan! Queen Deira has been looking forward to your arrival.”
The Tresean beamed.
“Altaecia is well known here; I know many doctors who can attest to her healing arts. And it is rare to have two more beautiful girls in my household, much less asha of such distinction.”
Likh squirmed. “I am an asha, but I am not a girl, milord.”
Surprised, Garindor regarded him more closely. “I was not always a good man in Drycht, my dear,” he said, his voice kind and honest. “I can only profess to be better now than I once was. Had you been born in Adra-al or Rasha you would not have had an easy time, but I am glad Kion thinks differently. You are very beautiful, either way.”
Likh blushed. “Th-thank you.”
I continued with purpose, “We’ve found a book in the Isteran library contradicting what we know of Blade that Soars’ and Dancing Wind’s origin.”
“Was that your concern?” Garindor chuckled. “Few people know of it. The original is not quite as compelling and romantic as the famous one penned by Vernasha.”
“You mean it’s true?” Kalen asked. “That’s the oldest incarnation of the legend?”
Garindor nodded. “The volume in the Isteran library has no known author, but we believe it was written by Rashnu the Just himself.”
“Rashnu of the Five Great Heroes?” Rahim exclaimed.
“Rashnu was the budding historian of the five and served as their chronicler. Samples of his writing exist in other works, and they were easy enough to compare to determine authenticity.”
“But why would Vernasha write a different version?” Khalad asked.
“It is difficult to understand someone’s motivations with so little of their text available.” Garindor spread his hands. “We have even less of Vernasha’s writings than we do of Rashnu’s. She only kept one diary, and it was not a personal journal. It dealt with the problems of founding a city. She may have intended to use the legend as the basis for the darashi oyun and knew that her version would make for a more interesting performance.”
“The original version mentions a First Harvest,” Kalen said. “What does that mean?”
“That too is a question every scholar would dearly like to know. Rashnu was Drychta—an enlightened man who would have railed at the behavior of his descendants today, I might add—and his writings were in his mother tongue. Old Drychta was hieroglyphic, and this ‘First Harvest’ is in a similar syntax as one might write ‘runeberries.’ From context, this ‘First Harvest’ is the only plant of its kind, immortal until plucked.”
Tucking the cigar between his teeth, Garindor selected a book from one of his shelves. “Rashnu refers to the First Harvest in one other document. Here: I have seen those strange blooms with my own eyes. Its name does not accord with its appearance. I have seen lovelier roses flowered, seen taller, prouder sycamore trees. But when brave Ashi reached for the sapling in curiosity, I felt its magic flow through the air, cracking like a whip. We were not worthy.
“‘It is not ours to take!’ I screamed, but too late. For an instant, I saw the tree, a Sacred Tree, beckoning me into light. Then it blinded me, sent me to my knees, threw me through the air.
“When I recovered my wits, my companions were gone. Where they once stood, the First Harvest remained—small and unimposing, deceiver, murderer. The best men and women I knew, who with me had survived countless wars and hardships, were felled by an incongruous sapling. May the light save their souls, and may the light save me.”
Khalad leaned forward. “That was Rashnu’s account of the death of his fellow Great Heroes, is it not? At the Ring of Worship in Drycht? But what’s a Sacred Tree?”
“Yes, Rashnu was never the same after that. They say the Ring of Worship is where the Great Creator first breathed life into the world, and that his sons’ sins corrupted the area. None has ever returned from it, aside from Rashnu. Even Vernasha made her final journey there, then passed from men’s sight forever. Others have made the expedition never to be heard from again. If the dry, desert heat didn’t wring those poor adventurers dry, perhaps they too were victims of this strange Sacred Tree. Daeva refuse to enter the area, it is said. If the First Harvest is within, then there is something that not only prevents its fruit from being plucked, but also kills anyone who—”
A scream rang through the air. It came from the other room. Kalen was quick on his feet, and we all hurried behind.
Althy was sprawled on the floor. Garindor’s young assistant hunched over his bed, horrible noises emanating from his throat. His eyes were wide and bloodshot.
As we looked on, horrified, his face twisted. Clumps of hair dropped from his head as his skull flattened and shrank, but his scarlet gaze grew as his eyelids and brows disappeared and a snout sprouted from the remains of his nose. His fingers fused together, the tips turning razor-sharp, until he was no longer recognizable as human. Instead, what stood before us was a grayish-green creature that resembled a praying mantis, taller than Rahim, with several rows of teeth along its mandible. It screeched, a horrible, air-ripping sound, and reached for Althy.
My fingers flew, the Compulsion rune flaring bright before me. “Stop!” I commanded, but the magic ricocheted off the creature’s scales. Stunned by my failure, I attempted the Resurrecting rune, which I used to control daeva. It had the same effect.
Kalen’s sword barred the creature from striking Althy. He made a quick movement with his other hand, and his blade burst into flame. Hissing, the creature stepped back. Likh was quick to braid a series of Wind around it, pinning it in place.
Garindor gasped. “What happened to him?”
“I don’t know,” Althy said. It was rare to see her so frightened. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
Kalen added his strength to Likh’s, reinforcing their grip on the monster. Still, Kalen held his burning sword aloft should the monster shake itself free. “What do we do?” Kalen asked me.
“I can’t do anything. Dark runes won’t work on it.” Fear swirled at the center of my heartsglass. An azi responded to my beck and call, but it meant nothing to this historian’s assistant. With this new form of daeva, I was helpless. “Khalad?”
The Heartforger was just as stumped. When I looked at his face, I found my own emotions mirrored. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a daeva.”
“I’ll send for Rendor immediately,” Councilor Ludvig said brusquely. “We’ll have as many men as he can spare to contain it. I am sorry, Garindor, but we have no other choice.”
“I understand,” the Drychta said weakly, sinking into a nearby chair. “Not daeva. These—these are foul, Blighted creatures. Yarrod, my poor boy…”
Tea? Are you all right? Tea!
Fox. I counted my heartbeats and rearranged my emotions, trotting calm and assurance to the forefront so they were the first emotions he read off me. I’m okay. We just had an incident.
An incident my foot. I saw that thing!
We have the situation under control, Fox. How’s Inessa?
Probably wondering why I marched out of the room. Are you sure you’re okay?
I promise.
There’s something… I can’t explain it, but there’s a strange emptiness between us. It wasn’t there before.
I stiffened, taking care not to think too deeply about my heartsglass to avert suspicion. Must be because we’re so far away. We’ve never been separated by kingdoms before.
I suppose so. I felt him relax, though not completely, because that wouldn’t be Fox. He pressed me. What in the seven hells is going on there?
I don’t know. It’s not daeva, Fox. I can’t control it.
Then what is it?
I wish I knew, I thought grimly, staring at the snapping face, the wriggling limbs of the abomination before me. I wish I knew.