The water from the Black Lake stung, but Ayae used a handful of it to wash her face, regardless. It was better than feeling as if she was wearing a mask of mud.
She hurt, but not as much as she should, really. Her hands were cut, her shirt torn and soggy where her armour didn’t run, and there was scarring over the leather where it did, but the worst was her back. It felt as if one long single bruise ran along her spine but, considering what she had just been through, Ayae was thankful that it was no more than that. She was not alone in how she had fared: with the exception of Jae’le, the others moved just as stiffly as she did. Jae’le, however, was completely unharmed, and Ayae’s first memory after she landed was of him, lifting her out of the shallow water she lay in. He carried her as if she were a child. She remembered seeing Tinh Tu on the shore, first. The old woman stripped off her muddy robe and stood naked in the fading afternoon’s light, her body a patchwork of wrinkles and cuts and muscle. Eidan sat not far from her on a broken stump, his clothes a mix of dirt and cuts, and his face a map of scars, mud and matted hair.
It had been he who asked how she was.
‘Exhausted,’ Jae’le had said. He had knelt and laid her down on a dry patch of ground. ‘She has fewer injuries than either of you.’
‘We are only alive because of her,’ Tinh Tu said.
‘Or because of the gods,’ Eidan murmured. ‘Remember the painting in the cave.’
‘It does not diminish what Ayae did.’ Jae’le rose, a dark shape above her. ‘But yes, what we saw did suggest we would survive,’ he said. ‘But we are not without our own power to shape what happens next.’
‘Are we to be gods again, then?’ Tinh Tu asked.
‘No, I speak instead of the relationship between the gods and the mortals. It is one in which one creates and one decides.’ Jae’le moved and revealed to Ayae the seething mass of the Mountains of Ger, the earth and debris of their collapse rising high into the night air, unformed but signalling destruction. ‘It is entirely possible that the gods meant for us to die. I can imagine dozens of fates where we are crushed beneath the mountain. And just as many where one, or more of us, do not escape. But those fates are no more. We have survived that. Our actions have made those fates non-existent.’
‘Unless there is only one fate,’ Eidan said. ‘If that is so, it’s a fate none of us will survive.’
Ayae had faded into an exhausted sleep and the sound of their voices, of their discussion, was one that worked its way into her dreams.
When she had awoken, she walked down to the lake. The midday’s sun was high in the sky, but it struggled to reveal the entirety of the mountainous ruins across the lake from her. Close to her, Ayae could see broken slabs of stone scattered along the shore and in the water of the Black Lake. Pieces of the Spine of Ger lay in the middle, the smooth stone of the bridge looking like the bones of a mountain, broken and splintered. Beyond the lake, the dust hung heavily, and Ayae could not be sure just how bad the damage was, how much the mountain peaks had collapsed into themselves.
But she knew Mireea was gone.
She could not imagine any series of events where the damaged city had survived. She could envision the holes throughout the city widening, the broken cobbled road coming apart as the mountain sought to devour everything it had not already destroyed, from the half-submerged hotels to the broken barracks and unharmed houses. Her house. She could see it lying in a crevasse, broken like an egg, its contents spilled across the ground around it.
‘I owe you a debt. The three of us do.’ Eidan had come up behind her silently. ‘We would not have been able to escape without you.’
‘I didn’t hold the mountain, light our way, or ensure that you were not left behind.’
‘Still. I thank you.’ He nodded to the mountain. ‘It can be repaired. Your home, that is.’
Could it? ‘Maybe it should be left,’ she said. ‘Maybe a new history should be allowed to take hold in its place.’
‘You cannot make a new world at the expense of another. I know that well.’ He turned to the small camp that they had made. ‘We have visitors.’
‘What kind?’
‘Come and see.’
She did not expect to find Miat Dvir and the Saan but, at the sight of them, a heavy sadness rose within her. She could tell they had seen battle, for many of the soldiers were bandaged around their arms, chests and heads. The Lord of the Saan was no different: his right arm was strapped to his chest, clearly broken. Yet, as Ayae drew closer, she saw that not all of the soldiers were from the Saan. Yeflam and Mireean soldiers lingered on the edges of the group, but there was no sense of order in them, of being part of a force. She knew, just by the sight of them, that Xrie was dead.
‘He was killed by the Innocent.’ It was Vyla Dvir who spoke. She did so in a heavy voice, her eyes haunted. ‘My husband saw him fall. He claims that he had never seen a swordsman so quick and so deadly as Aela Ren. The Blade Prince did not even have time to draw his sword.’ Beside her, Miat Dvir nodded stiffly and, closer now, Ayae saw the heavy, dark bruising around his jaw. ‘But it was not just the Innocent who killed. His soldiers did as well and they are also terrifying figures. We had a larger force, a well-armed force, and yet to them, our soldiers were nothing. They allowed swords to pierce their bodies, would break blades in their hands, before they crushed the bones of their enemies.’
‘You should not have fought them,’ Tinh Tu said, sitting before Vyla. Jae’le stood behind his sister, unsurprised by anything said. ‘The Innocent’s soldiers are like him. They cannot die.’
‘The cartographer, Samuel Orlan, told us the same,’ she said, startling Ayae. ‘He was sent to issue a duel, but he urged us to turn around, to ride away. The mercenary captain agreed with him, but my husband and the other captains thought it was cowardice. He accused the mercenary of wanting more gold to be a soldier.’
‘Did Samuel die?’ Ayae asked.
She shook her head. ‘He returned to the Innocent’s soldiers. He said that he was a prisoner, but he would not elaborate as to why he was given the task of delivering this message.’
‘How much of your force did you lose?’ Tinh Tu asked.
‘Nearly half,’ Vyla said, turning back to her.
‘We cannot win.’ Miat Dvir’s voice was a painful mumble, yet he persisted. ‘Not how we are. Not now.’
‘You could never win.’
‘We appeal to you.’ He looked not at Tinh Tu, but Jae’le. ‘You were once a great general. We of the Saan know this.’
‘I no longer lead armies,’ he said.
A loud squawk startled those nearest and, from high up in the sky, a large white raven began to descend. ‘I lead our armies,’ Tinh Tu said. The bird settled on a grey branch above her. ‘If you wish to petition any of us, you must do so to me.’
‘You are no general,’ Miat said in his painful mumble. ‘You are an old woman. You cannot strike fear into an enemy. You cannot lead us to our victory, to our honour.’
‘Kneel.’
The Lord of the Saan appeared, briefly, as if he were confused, for Tinh Tu’s voice had been soft, but the command was undeniable. The word kneel echoed in the minds of everyone who was in hearing distance, the word containing not a simple command, but a power, an urge, a need that had to be responded to. Unable to resist, Miat Dvir stumbled awkwardly from where he sat, and lowered himself to his knee. He began to speak, but Tinh Tu, with a shake of her head, said, ‘No.’
Her second command resulted in a look of horror on Dvir. He could not speak and as he realized that, the warriors close to him rose. They drew their swords, but Tinh Tu, who saw them advance, was unconcerned. In her quiet voice, she said, ‘You will kneel.’ As each of them did, she looked beyond them, out to the Saan, the Mireean and the Yeflam soldiers. ‘You will all kneel,’ she said, her voice an awful force that the soldiers were unable to deny.