《The Elder God's Consort (F/F Romance, Cosmic Horror, Dark Fantasy)》


 0: Prologue

    Here is the official story.


    Twenty-four years ago, in a kingdom by the name of Saimr, two very important events happened around the same time. The first was a puzzling surprise: God-King Kodezh, who had ruled his lands competently and with little fuss for nearly seven centuries, suddenly fell ill. This was not an impossible thing¡ªeven a god, under the right circumstances, could be brought low by some wretched affliction or another. It was simply¡­ very unlikely. After all, God-King Kodezh was a deity in his prime! He was not the strongest god in the world of Ansera, or even especially close to it, but he was not weak. His rule was secure, his domain lush and thriving, his flock docile and bound by blood tithes. Since the days of his conquest so many centuries ago, Saimr had faced no great calamities, no invasions, only one bloody rebellion, and a mere handful of petty civil squabbles, all easily resolved by the king himself.


    So it was with great surprise that the king¡¯s many demigod sons received the baffling news of his sequestration from the public eye. In this missive, there was no explanation of what illness had befallen him, and no indication of when it might be resolved. In the king¡¯s absence, his divine consort named her firstborn son Gamodar to the position of regent.


    The king had no named heir. Why would he? He was not a mortal ruler; he had no plans to step down and certainly no plans to become otherwise indisposed. And he had no wish to set any of his sons above the others, lest the pointless position of crown prince become yet another thorn bristling between them. He¡¯d had quite enough of arbitrating their petty disputes, after all. But someone had to occupy the throne until the king recovered, and of all his sons, Gamodar was perhaps the least ambitious (and the simplest). He was no great statesman, but he was a capable warrior and a devoted son who worshipped the very ground his father trod upon. He would do nothing to sully the king¡¯s legacy.


    The divine-consort was no grasping harpy, either; even her husband¡¯s concubines respected her. Consort Hraila wasn¡¯t a full-fledged goddess, but what power she had she shared freely for the benefit of her husband¡¯s faithful. She was gentle and kind and pure (an embodiment of the ideal Saimerian woman, the priests claimed!)¡ªill-suited to ruling in her husband¡¯s stead, but certainly trusted enough to select the man who should.


    So. The king was mysteriously indisposed, but as long as he recovered quickly, there would be no great danger to the realm. And there was no reason he shouldn¡¯t recover quickly! Hraila had summoned Saimr¡¯s finest apothecaries and physickers to the palace; his flock was eager to serve and his domain rich with power he might draw upon to heal should he require it.


    And yet he did not recover. Weeks of silence from the royal palace spilled into months, and those godborn Red Princes who had been content to obey their cotton-headed brother until their father resumed his rightful place on the throne began to mutter their discontent. It seemed that the king was indeed drawing upon the reserves of his domain to restore himself, for the harvests that year were much slimmer than usual. The king¡¯s priests reassured his devotees that their god had not abandoned them, had not stopped listening to their prayers, but in secret, they too had begun to fret. The trickle of holy power that sustained the priesthood was slowing. The priests would not be powerless without His Worship¡¯s blessings, but they would be significantly weakened, their untouchable perch atop Saimerian society cracked.


    It was under these strange and worrisome circumstances that the second notable event occurred: for the first time in a very long time, another god¡¯s influence began to creep through Saimr. From the provincial outlands of the mountainous north, there came news of a prophet. She hailed from lands unknown, spoke tongues no Saimerian ear had ever heard, and wielded magics forbidden by every mage sect in Ansera. She even commanded a vicious beast she called a dragon, though at the time the creature was apparently still young and weak (this was the prophet¡¯s assessment, and no other¡¯s). The prophet called herself Seda. She claimed that she was the chosen herald of a god more fearsome than any in Ansera, and she had come to spread the gift of her god¡¯s blessings.


    Though the Prophet Seda was a dark mage of exceptional talent, she was only one woman (well, and a dragon). Had the Red Princes banded together then, they may have been able to slay her. But by that time, a false prophet was merely a small fly in a great deal of ointment: the kingdom was faltering. It had been nearly two years since God-King Kodezh¡¯s withdrawal from the public eye, and the limits of Regent Gamodar¡¯s power were becoming quickly apparent. He had never expected to wear his father¡¯s crown and had received no special training in statecraft (not that it would have stuck). He struggled to adequately resolve even minor disputes, and the disputes being brought to his attention by now were far from minor. There were reports of failing crops, of spreading sickness, of rebellious lordlings, of bandits on the royal highway and incursions on the border and corruption within the priesthood.


    Regent Gamodar was a good and noble man, but he was not a good king. He knew not what to do. He could swing a blade with great prowess, but he could not summon wheat or gold or medicinal salves from thin air. It was only a matter of time, then, until the web of cracks spreading from the royal capital collapsed into a fault.


    The first Red Prince rebelled.


    His name is not important, for many of his brothers soon followed. This band of rebels came together and sent a missive to the Regent and the Consort demanding to be allowed entry to the capital, to ascertain the truth of the king¡¯s condition for themselves, and for the Regent Gamodar to step aside and allow a more competent brother to take his place. Precisely who that brother would be hadn¡¯t yet been decided. When this contingent of demigods and their bannermen marched upon the capital, Consort Hraila, well aware that her influence was fading, finally offered up the truth.


    The king could not be seen. His condition was poor and contagious; no pill or poultice or healing array had yielded any effect. Worse: those who had treated him soon fell to the illness as well. God-King Kodezh was still alive, but he was no longer himself.


    This humble author assumes what came next will be obvious. If the honorable reader answered ¡°a godswar¡±, they are wise and correct.


    The Red Princes, who for centuries had not dared assume that the throne of Saimr might fall vacant in their long lifetimes, found themselves with the crown finally in their reach. Never mind the brewing famine or word of a spreading plague in the north: when a new god helmed the kingdom and claimed the land and its souls for themselves, all ills could be routed! And so the Princes, blinded by ambition and greed and even a genuine desire to save the realm, set off to battle. Alliances formed and shattered; blocs of influence bloomed and wilted. A few of the king¡¯s sons banded together to support Regent Gamodar in the hopes that their father might still miraculously recover. Some weaker offspring carefully threw their weight behind a sufficiently powerful and doting brother. Most staked out claims of their own, convinced of the righteousness of their cause. For the first time in hundreds of years, Saimr¡¯s soil was soaked with the blood of commoners and godlings alike.


    And as the godswar raged, the Prophet Seda quietly gathered an army of her own. In the northern mountains and dales, far from the embattled royal capital, the Prophet¡¯s ¡°blessings¡± took root. A different sort of sickness befell the people of the north. Those who contracted it babbled about the light of a far-off sun, a great dark star that sang the most beautiful song and flooded their veins with a power no god of this world could hope to match. This was the Prophet¡¯s god! This was the Fell Empress, the First Dragon, the Sun Unvanquished!


    Some who fell ill survived. Some did not. Many tumbled into a state somewhere in-between: lapsed into madness or bloodlust, twisted mentally, physically, and spiritually. But those who lived, who maintained their faculties¡ªthose became the Prophet¡¯s devout followers. The numbers of those followers increased by the day, until eventually Seda established a sect of her own. She called it the Dawn. With it, she said, she would topple the reign of these petty pretender-gods; no longer would the common people grovel at the feet of the lords and princes who spat upon them. All who basked in the light of the True Sun had the opportunity to achieve greatness if only they were willing to work for it.


    A touching sentiment! Not entirely true, but not quite false either, and compelling either way.


    As the war dragged on and the Prophet¡¯s teachings spread farther and farther, they reached even the ears of those beyond the Worldrift¡ªthat great churning divide that separates Ansera into its constituent halves. Saimr belongs to the side of the Worldrift called Ulor, and upon the other shore is a land called Imtheria. It was Imtheria where Ansera¡¯s greatest powers, most terrifying monsters, and most potent magic resided. And indeed, one of those great powers soon crossed the Rift herself to investigate these curious rumors.


    The astute reader will of course know precisely to whom this author refers!


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    Five years had now passed since the God-King Kodezh first secluded himself. The war showed no signs of stopping, and the Prophet Seda and her dragon Syuasi had only grown stronger. Saimr was awash with blood, writhing with hunger, and tainted by this ¡°True Sun¡¯s¡± alien magic. This was the state of the kingdom the archmage Velnyr Napharos encountered when she exited the Worldrift.


    Even in Saimr, which was not particularly close to the Rift, word of her deeds had spread far and wide. This young archmage was the scion of a most powerful goddess and a legend in her own right: in a realm overrun by godborn nobles and powerful mages, Archmage Primarius Velnyr was exceptional. Not only had she reached the pinnacle of the arcane hierarchy at such a tender age (for an elf, anyway), she had done so despite the meddling of jealous peers, cut-throat rivals, and even her divine ancestor! Hers was a reputation steeped in blood and glory, and already some nobles in her homeland had begun to whisper about how precarious her very existence rendered her divine ancestor¡¯s position. No doubt the God-Queen of Leviathan, that awe-inspiring underground metropolis, was more than relieved to hear that her ruthless descendant had turned her back on the city-state and set out alone to investigate rumors of dark magic across the world.


    And so the Archmage Velnyr sought the Prophet Seda. She traveled across the land in solitude, observing the war and the scars it left behind. When finally she reached the Prophet¡¯s northern fortress, Kachai, she proposed a compromise: she would help the Prophet usurp the Saimerian throne, and in return Seda would help her take Leviathan from her ancestor. To Seda, this was a remarkable stroke of good fortune. Not only was Velnyr a peerless warmage, her lineage and position granted the Dawn and its witches a measure of legitimacy in the eyes of lords and commonfolk alike. And Velnyr was in possession of wealth, resources, and allies that the Dawn could not hope to rival. What luck!


    It was here that the tide of war shifted, and the Red Princes who had been utterly focused on slaughtering their own kin in the name of ascension suddenly realized that they had allowed a much greater threat to fester under their noses. The remaining demigods rushed to call for truces and reforge alliances in the face of this daunting new force, but it was far too late. As the Prophet and the Archmage struck out on campaign, city after city after city fell to their combined might. Warlords and Red Citadel mages toppled with hardly a whimper. The Red Princes raised mighty generals; the Prophet raised Dreadsaints to slay them. The Red Princes retreated to enchanted palaces; the great dragon Syuasi scorched them to ash. The Red Princes scrambled to forge bonds of matrimony to secure their legacies; the Prophet wed the Archmage¡¯s own disciple.


    The ending of this tale was already written. The Red Princes had only realized it once their fates were sealed.


    But as the Dawn and its illustrious leaders approached the capital, the Prophet¡¯s heart began to sour. Before the Archmage¡¯s arrival, she was the True Sun¡¯s only mouthpiece, the sole vessel of its will. She was as a god in all but name. But the Archmage was a prodigy, and she embraced the True Sun¡¯s power like a fish embraces water. In every battle, the Archmage displayed her own mastery of the True Sun¡¯s magic¡ªa mastery that threatened to surpass the Prophet¡¯s own despite her decades of meticulous study. Now, there were whispers. Perhaps the Prophet was only ever meant to be a lieutenant? Perhaps the True Sun had really chosen the Archmage to inherit its strength, and the Prophet was only a pawn tasked with laying out the carpet before her arrival?


    Jealousy had sprouted, and blooming from its stem was treachery.


    As the Dawn marched, the Prophet began to scheme. She and the Archmage had split their forces some time back to pen the capital in on multiple sides. Now was the time to act. If she wanted to surpass the Archmage, she needed to be stronger¡­ and to be stronger, she needed to feast. In secret, Prophet Seda began to prey upon the souls of the soldiers she felled in battle. The True Sun acknowledged no taboos, but this was a dangerous tactic. To consume a soul, one must first master it, destroy it, absorb it. Every soul would fight; every fight came with a price. The more souls the Prophet devoured, the more her mind frayed.


    And still it wasn¡¯t enough: the Archmage was simply too powerful. The Prophet needed more. She slaughtered indiscriminately, soldiers and civilians alike falling to her blade. Her once-devout followers, their faith in her divine providence already shaken by the Archmage¡¯s blistering strength, began to dissent. Many of them had been hapless commoners once, after all. Hadn¡¯t the Prophet promised that she would rule differently? Hadn¡¯t she promised that she would not step upon the corpses of peasants to rise to the throne?


    These portents of mutiny drove the Prophet to madness. The mere week before she and the Archmage were set to reunite in the battle for the capital, she struck: she ordered the Archmage assassinated. She sent three of her saints to finish the job, and she put her own disobedient followers to the sword. Even Seda¡¯s own wife¡ªthe Archmage¡¯s disciple!¡ªwas ambushed and hung from the gates of their most recently captured stronghold as punishment for her long loyalty to her master. But three saints were not enough to bring down Leviathan¡¯s Archmage Primarius.


    Infuriated by the Prophet¡¯s betrayal, the Archmage turned her own army towards the Prophet¡¯s scattering forces. Now truly desperate and truly maddened by the many souls she had consumed, Seda¡¯s mindless hunger drove her to strike down and gorge herself upon her own loyal beast. The dragon Syuasi sacrificed herself for her master, and in the aftermath, the Prophet spread her wings: a dragon reborn!


    The Archmage¡¯s army and the Prophet¡¯s limping band of zealots clashed in the royal capital for their final battle. Though the Archmage¡¯s forces far outnumbered the Prophet¡¯s, the Prophet herself had transformed into a foul and blasphemous god, a tremendous emerald-scaled dragon with frenzied eyes and breath of scorching black flame. The battle raged long into the night, buildings that had stood proudly for centuries crumbling beneath the onslaught of dark magic. Soldiers and commonfolk and nobles and merchants alike died by the thousands, burned and slashed and crushed and trampled. The sky roiled with the force of the magic brought to bear; the ground quaked and the stars trembled.


    And in the midst of this terrible clash, a once-proud king opened his eyes for the first time in many years and began to scream. Beneath the shuddering roof of the palace, a profanity had bubbled for years. With an ear-shattering roar, it finally erupted from its chrysalis, bursting through the palace¡¯s stone walls with ease. The God-King Kodezh had been transformed! An august monarch had devolved into a colossal living obscenity. Even the True Sun¡¯s magic was dull against his warped hide. His putrescent aura blighted everything it touched; and with every inch of reality he corrupted, he grew yet more powerful.


    At once, the Archmage turned to confront this new threat, but the mad dragon cared only about crushing the Archmage beneath her feet. Despite all her ferocious strength, all her conniving and cruelty, Seda had yet to inflict so much as a scratch upon the Archmage she so despised. Wild with jealous rage, she saw the God-King¡¯s massive, defiled corpse lumbering towards them and screeched with joy. Surely the Archmage could not defend against them both! If Seda¡¯s teeth and claws and flames could not destroy her, then let her rot!


    The Archmage was now surrounded by enemies on all sides. Betwixt the walls of devouring dragonflame and the swelling tide of filth, the Archmage bowed her head. And for the first time since her arrival in Saimr, the Archmage Primarius placed a hand upon the ornate leather hilt strapped to her side and drew her spiritual weapon from its scabbard. The air chilled. The screams of the dying quieted. In that dark night, the fathomless saber ?anha swallowed the light of the moon and stars and roaring flames, nestling it safely beneath the strangely pellucid surface of its blade. Within this shard of the Archmage¡¯s soul given form, a riotous vision of the cosmos churned. When the Archmage raised her peerless saber, it was as though the world itself bent to her will.


    After all, in that foreign tongue which the Archmage and the Prophet shared, the word ?anha meant dominion.


    The truth of what came next is a mystery to even this humble author. By the time the false sun crested the smoldering horizon the next morning, the royal capital was in ruins. In the ashes, the corpses of the old king and the dragon goddess lay side-by-side, battered beyond recognition. Only the Archmage remained standing, radiant and untouched.


    After nearly two decades, Saimr¡¯s godswar was finally over.


    By now, the honorable reader will be able to fill in the rest. From that day forward, the Archmage Primarius shed the robes of her former office and took up the crown of a God-Queen. For the next few years, she solidified her reign, mercilessly routing every whimper of opposition, establishing a new royal capital in the balmy south, and reshaping the pitiful remnants of the Dawn into a new arcane order loyal only to Her Worship.


    Now, five years into the God-Queen¡¯s rule, Saimr has finally begun to heal. The Red Princes are dead, their descendants bound tightly to Her Worship¡¯s will. The new capital, Tsimeda, is the glittering jewel of the south, a pristine monument to the queen¡¯s incredible power. Temples and shrines to Her Worship¡¯s might are erected with increasing frequency. Her priests call her the First Dragon Reborn, the True-Born Daughter of the Fell Empress, the Bride of the Sun Unvanquished. The surviving witches of the Dawn have become members of a holy order; their covens span every corner of the kingdom, recruiting fresh blood and cleansing the realm of monsters, restless spirits, and hostile dissenters alike.


    A new era blossoms beneath the God-Queen¡¯s guiding hand. The future is bright! All hail the Dragon Come Again!


    ¡­And that is how the story ends. Officially. A perfectly tidy resolution! But life is not a story, and no knot remains tight and unfrayed forever. If this humble author might be permitted to say so¡­ the old king did not fall ill out of nowhere. The Prophet did not appear from thin air. Even God-Queen Velnyr, praising Her name for a thousand years, showed remarkable aptitude for an arcane art to which she had evidently only just been exposed. This neat and orderly skein has more snags than it appears at first glance.


    Ah, and there is another matter as well: the tale of a measly side character in this drama, cut short without fanfare. Does the clever reader recall mention of the Archmage¡¯s disciple¡ªthe one who was wed to the Prophet and eventually strung up above city gates as a message?


    Yes, that one. Well, this humble author happens to know a secret: that meager plot device has not yet outlived her usefulness! There is another tale ready to unfold, and it all begins in the north¡ªwhere the Prophet Seda made her first appearance, and where an entirely forgettable woman who died years ago has adopted another identity altogether¡­


    forgettable woman who died years ago has adopted another identity altogether¡­

 1: A Harmonious Bloom

    The Time: Present day, 720 A.E. (Age of Empires)


    The Place: Kachai Fortress, on the outskirts of the city of Vaomeze, in the province of Shenevi


    The girl cannot be more than five or six. She¡¯s a cute little thing despite the angry red burns spewing across her chest, up her throat, all the way over her delicate jaw. Her blue eyes are big and anxious; her tiny underfed body clings desperately to her father¡¯s leg despite the cheerful spread of sweet snacks and tea laid out on the table before her.


    ¡°Nila,¡± her father murmurs encouragingly, patting the grimy little paw clutching his trousers, ¡°Come sit and eat something, hm? Look, look. Hazelnut turnovers. Your favorite!¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± the woman seated across from him says. Her chin rests in her upturned palm, and the smile curling above it is warm and flanked by two charming dimples. Eyes the color of the whirling depths of the Charska Sea twinkle beneath a long curtain of dark lashes; hair the color of a copper coin curls mischievously free from the thick, shining plait falling halfway down her back. Tucked beneath her chair with the tip of its nose resting against her knee is a big, rather pitiful looking black dog with a long skinny snout and long skinny legs.


    Nila isn¡¯t sure if she likes this dog or not. Some of the stray dogs back home are nice, but the huge fluffy herding dogs usually bark and growl at her if she gets too close. She can¡¯t tell which sort of dog this one will be. It hasn¡¯t paid her any mind, too focused on snoozing in a beam of sunlight and snoring into its master¡¯s trousers.


    With her free hand, the woman selects the little plate of hazelnut turnovers and slides them closer to the opposite edge of the table. Nila eyes them suspiciously and then glowers at the woman herself. The woman doesn¡¯t return her gaze, though. She doesn¡¯t seem to notice Nila at all. Instead, she picks up her pretty porcelain cup and idly swirls the steaming tea inside. It¡¯s funny to see such a small cup in such a large hand, Nila thinks. After all, the woman is quite tall, especially to a little girl¡¯s eyes. She¡¯s even taller than Nila¡¯s atu! She looks strong, too. Not hungry. Nila¡¯s atu had looked like that once, before they had to leave home. He¡¯s the strongest man in the world, as far as Nila is concerned, strong enough to scoop her up on his shoulders or toss her into the air and catch her with ease. Strong enough to split a log with a single swing of his axe. Strong enough to protect her from all the mean people who call her awful names and throw things at her when they see her burns. But since they left home, he¡¯s gotten skinnier, his beard growing more unkempt and his cheeks drawing taut.


    And here, in this strange place, Atu looks even more ill at ease than he was on the open road. It¡¯s not that it¡¯s a scary sort of place¡ªthe opposite, really. The area they¡¯re in is some sort of massive pavilion. They had to follow their escort down a number of walkways and cross a very high bridge to reach it. The pavilion is wide and open and covered by an intimidatingly tall roof, but it still feels quite cozy. There are plants everywhere, stuffed in ceramic pots painted all sorts of colors or hanging from the exposed beams of the ceiling or winding around looming trellises. Some sections of woody, flowering vines even serve as natural barriers against the wind and sun. There are comfortable wicker chairs and overstuffed cushions and small tables strategically placed in pleasant locations; a handful of sturdy shelves enclosing them hold all manner of books and scrolls and trinkets and magical doodads. Tapestries and banners in dark blue and bronze billow in the breeze.


    Occasionally, people in handsome robes (also dyed dark blue and bronze) wander by, heedless of Nila and her atu. Some of them wear masks crafted in different shapes and from various materials; others are bare-faced. All of them feel¡­ strange. Familiar, in a way, but not quite like the other people in Nila¡¯s village. She can¡¯t explain how or why, but she knows it to be true.


    So it¡¯s a nice place. Nicer than anything Nila has ever seen. It makes her feel small and grubby, like a bug someone has dragged out from under a rock and placed onto a silver platter for further examination.


    The tall, strange woman (who does not wear a mask of any sort) finally sips her tea and sighs in satisfaction, leaning back in her high-backed chair to regard Nila¡¯s atu. The black dog groans, put-upon, and opens its watery dark eyes to stare reproachfully up at her. The woman scratches its chin. She still doesn¡¯t look at Nila, even when Nila¡¯s hand slowly, carefully inches towards the plate of hazelnut pastries.


    ¡°You must have traveled a long way,¡± the woman says instead. ¡°I hope you didn¡¯t run into any trouble on the road?¡±


    ¡°No, no,¡± Atu insists. ¡°It was fine. The weather¡¯s stayed nice, thanking the Queen for Her mercy. It wasn¡¯t so bad.¡±


    A queer expression crosses the tall woman¡¯s face for a flicker of a second, there and gone before Nila can even really register it (not that she¡¯s looking too hard. The closest pastry is nearly in her reach).


    ¡°May She reign eternal,¡± is all she says.


    Atu coughs nervously. ¡°I¨CI apologize again for bothering you, Miss, um. Miss Preceptor. Ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°You can call me Ari,¡± the tall woman says.


    Atu swallows. ¡°Preceptor¡­ Ari. Ah, I tried bringing Nila to the coven outpost in Ghurma, but they said¡ªsaid that there was nothing they could do for her, and they told me to bring her here. To you. I really hope it isn¡¯t a bother. I¡­ don¡¯t have much, but you¡¯re welcome to all of it if you can just¡­ if you can help her.¡± At the end, his voice cracks with the effort of remaining steady and polite.


    Nila¡¯s fist closes around the warm, flaky pastry hanging off the edge of the plate. In a flash, she yanks it beneath the table and stuffs as much of it in her mouth as will fit in one bite. Her cheeks bulge with the effort, but the feeling of rich, buttery sweetness melting on her tongue is well worth the discomfort. It¡¯s the first thing she¡¯s eaten in weeks that isn¡¯t dried trail rations.


    The woman¨CPreceptor Ari?¡ªwaves a hand. ¡°Nah,¡± she replies cheerfully. ¡°I was bored anyway. It¡¯s been so slow since winter¡¯s end, you know? I should thank you for giving me something to do besides teaching the novitiates not to eat their own boogers.¡±


    Nila, who only recently learned not to eat boogers, sniffs in disdain.


    Preceptor Ari yawns and stretches her arms out with a satisfying crack. ¡°Eat all you want. I don¡¯t really like sweet stuff. When you¡¯re done, why don¡¯t you take a walk with me for a bit?¡± She smiles. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about the little one. She can¡¯t run off, and Baza here can keep her company.¡± The woman pats the scraggly dog¡¯s slender snout. It huffs.


    Nila bristles at this. She has a name, first of all, and she¡¯s not little, she¡¯s six! And it¡¯s not proper for a lady to walk around unsupervised with an unmarried man! The old aunties back home used to cluck about that all the time! And she doesn¡¯t want to hang out with some¡­ mangy dog anyway!


    Fine! Go on! See if she doesn¡¯t figure out how to run off! She¡¯s not stupid!


    Atu hesitates for a long moment, but when the tall woman stands and begins fussing with the nearby plants, pulling dead growth from their stems without a single care for the fate of her pastries, he finally reaches out and snags a plate of his own.


    ***


    Some time later, the man and the tall woman depart the pavilion, meandering slowly down a long flight of wooden stairs until they reach a sprawling, slightly overgrown, but nevertheless charming garden. There is neither a little girl nor a lanky black dog following them.


    A cobbled pathway winds between rotund bushes and little stone statues carved in the amateurish likenesses of the Eight Archons and clumps of colorful flowers. This is the path they follow as they stroll, one figure far more relaxed than the other. There doesn¡¯t seem to be anyone else in this particular garden at the moment.


    The man has been silent for much of this walk, but suddenly he finds the words brewing in his throat can be held back no longer. ¡°Will you be able to help her?¡± he finally asks. His words are raw with a fear he has until now been unable to reveal to anyone.


    Preceptor Ari glances down at him with a small smile. Since the man¡¯s wife died giving birth to little Nila, he has had no particular interest in looking at other women, but he has to admit this one is certainly handsome. She¡¯s no blushing village maiden, soft and buxom, but there is an appealing sort of confidence in her smooth gait. Her skin is unblemished and gilded by the sun; the lines of her nose and jaw are straight and even. When she smiles, there is an air of carefree mischief in the dips of her dimples, the crinkling at the corners of those fox-like eyes.


    She folds her arms casually behind her back. ¡°Of course,¡± she says.


    She doesn¡¯t explain further. She doesn¡¯t hasten to ease his worries. She speaks with the easy, thoughtless certainty of someone who does not have to wonder whether or not she speaks the truth; if she says it, it will be done.


    It is far more reassuring than the man would have expected. All at once, the frenetic strength that¡¯s been driving him through these sleepless weeks sloshes out of him like water from an overfilled cup. He finds himself swaying, finds his throat closing up with a choking sob. Preceptor Ari doesn¡¯t coddle him, doesn¡¯t ask him what¡¯s wrong. She merely holds him up courteously by the elbow and half-guides, half-drags him to a nearby wooden bench. He collapses upon it in a daze, staring unseeingly at the clusters of flowers before him dancing in the spring breeze. Fat tears leak soundlessly down his cheek. Thankfully, the Preceptor doesn¡¯t look, instead turning to regard the flowerbeds.


    ¡°Ah¡­¡± Preceptor Ari says morosely, ¡°Look at my poor calendulas. They¡¯re gonna get swallowed.¡±


    The man doesn¡¯t reply, and the Preceptor doesn¡¯t seem to expect one. As the man buries his face in his hands, she marches towards the line of flowerbeds and reaches for the short leather sheath at her side¡ªonly for her fingers to swipe nothing but air, as whatever the sheath ordinarily holds is entirely absent. Preceptor Ari glances down in faint surprise, then curses under her breath and begins rolling up her sleeves. Heedless of what horrors might await her fine brown boots and crisp woolen uniform, the woman crouches down and starts rummaging through the tangle of weeds choking her neglected flowers.


    This is how the next twenty minutes pass: the man watches the Preceptor in teary silence, and the Preceptor idly hums a tune he doesn¡¯t recognize as she rips out clump after clump of crabgrass and thistle by the roots.


    ¡°Does your daughter like flowers?¡± she calls over her shoulder some time later. The man startles, shaken from his reverie.


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    ¡°She¨Cshe does.¡±


    ¡°Does she have a favorite flower?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t¡­ know. I don¡¯t think so?¡±


    ¡°Okay. A favorite color, then?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ blue.¡±


    ¡°Blue,¡± the Preceptor muses. ¡°Blue, blue.¡± She stands up and dusts off her filthy hands, surveying the garden for a moment before muttering an ¡°Aha!¡± and setting off in an apparently random direction. Only a few moments later, she returns with a bouquet of dainty summer gentians nestled in the crook of her arm.


    ¡°Do you want me to tell you what happens now?¡± she asks the man. ¡°Some people, it makes them feel better to know. Some people just want to get it over with. Whatever makes you comfortable.¡±


    The man opens his cracked lips, thinks, and then nods. ¡°I¡¯d like to know.¡±


    The Preceptor doesn¡¯t answer immediately. Instead, she adjusts her delicate bundle of blooms and offers the man a hand up¡ªa hand that, despite her modest efforts, is still quite dirty. She either doesn¡¯t notice it or doesn¡¯t mind it, and the man himself is filthy from weeks on the road. He clasps it gratefully and only staggers a little bit when the woman hauls him easily to his feet with a strength even her athletic frame doesn¡¯t entirely explain.


    Once they set off along the cobbled path again, Preceptor Ari begins to speak. ¡°Do you have any mages in your family, by chance? Any friends who are mages, even?¡±


    The man only grimaces and shakes his head. Preceptor Ari had expected this answer and hums noncommittally. ¡°Alright. Well¨Cwe¡¯re in a garden, so I¡¯ll explain it this way.¡± She glances around until she spots a nearby shrub, its belly festering with weeds, and stops. The man looks at it too when she indicates it with a jerk of her chin. ¡°So right now, your daughter¡¯s soul looks a little bit like that bush.¡±


    The man stares at the bush, at the innocuous-looking but parasitic growths taking refuge in its soil.


    ¡°Every witch¡¯s power is born from what we call a sunseed,¡± she continues. ¡°It¡¯s a teeny-tiny little sliver of the True Sun¡ªour highest divine. It¡¯s a spark of potential. But until the seed finds a host, it¡¯s dormant. Once it latches on properly, it¡¯ll set down roots fast and start to grow, but it¡¯s like any seed: it can¡¯t feed itself. For the first stage of its life, it can only draw on the energy of the soul it¡¯s buried in. If you¡¯re a strong mage with a robust spiritual foundation, that¡¯s not such a big deal. But if you¡¯re a little girl whose soul is still unstable, who doesn¡¯t have any control over her own life force¡­¡±


    The man¡¯s expression crumples a bit.


    ¡°As the seed grows, it will try to meld itself to the soul it inhabits. Even under ideal conditions, it¡¯s not an easy process; human bodies weren¡¯t really made with this kind of power in mind. And the younger you are, the weaker you are, the hungrier you are, the sicklier you are¡­ the more difficult that process is. It takes time and energy, and it comes with a price.¡±


    The Preceptor taps her chest. ¡°Those burns your daughter has? We call them stigmata. They¡¯re the first visible sign that a sunseed has been planted, and they¡¯ll continue to appear until the seed blooms. The more her body fights that bloom, the more it will hurt her.¡±


    ¡°Nila,¡± the man whispers brokenly. He can say nothing else. There is a war taking place in his daughter¡¯s body, and he can do nothing, nothing at all, to stop it.


    ¡°If everything goes perfectly, by the time the seed is ready to complete its coalescence the soul will have been tempered to accept it. We call that a harmonious bloom. But if the soul has been weakened too much, or if it rejects the seed, then¡­ it¡¯ll keep eating at the soul until there¡¯s nothing left. We call that a calamitous bloom.¡±


    ¡°Would it¡­ kill her?¡± the man asks softly.


    The Preceptor turns to him and smiles again, a beam of sunlight breaking through a bank of storm clouds. ¡°While I¡¯m here? No shot. But if she were on her own¡ªmaybe. You did a good thing, coming here so quickly.¡±


    Really, there¡¯s no maybe about it. A child of Nila¡¯s age and ability, left to her own devices, has almost no chance of survival. And it truly is a good thing the man and his daughter had arrived at Kachai Fortress now, because in another week or two, it would have been far too late.


    But the Preceptor says none of this. ¡°A calamitous bloom can kill, or it can maim¨Cthe mind, the body, and the soul. Either way, once it¡¯s done, it¡¯s done. There¡¯s no fixing it. Even I can¡¯t reverse that kind of damage.¡±


    Prior to this, Preceptor Ari had not yet told the man a lie. This is the first.


    Seeing the poor man¡¯s face reddening with the threat of tears again, she pats his shoulder. ¡°Anyway, there¡¯s no need to get worked up. You wanted to know what happens after she blooms, right?¡±


    Frankly, the man hadn¡¯t stopped long enough to consider what might happen after. His heartsick mind had only enough room to fear the present; what good was it to fret about a future not yet assured? And so the two of them continued down a long stretch of that cobbled path before he finally answered with a simple nod.


    The Preceptor does not launch into her explanations immediately. Instead, she gradually draws to a halt beneath a pair of drooping willows. Nearby, a gurgling dragonhead fountain serves as a bath-house for a gaggle of red rosefinches. The air is sweet and temperate, the sky above crisp and blue and cloudless.


    ¡°God-Queen Velnyr planted a lot of this garden herself, you know,¡± she says suddenly. ¡°Years ago. Back when Kachai Fortress was the Dawn¡¯s only stronghold.¡±


    The man jolts, utterly unprepared for this change of topic. ¡°Wh¡ªreally?¡± he stammers.


    ¡°Yup.¡± The Preceptor watches a fat honeybee hover precariously above the soft yellow bowl of a golden peony. ¡°Apparently she¡¯s into horticulture. Who knew.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ see,¡± the man replies, a bit lost. He looks helplessly at the weeds, the dirty water in the fountain, the mud and moss fuzzing over the cobblestone path.


    The Preceptor follows his gaze and smiles, though it lacks any real warmth. ¡°It¡¯s just a pleasure garden now. It doesn¡¯t grow anything useful. I tidy it up when I can, but¡­¡± she shrugs half-heartedly. ¡°No one really comes here anymore. It¡¯s not like the Queen has ever been back to check on it.¡±


    The man does not respond, but something about this glib excuse rings untrue. A garden planted by a divine hand¡ªsurely the members of such a devoted creed wouldn¡¯t allow it to fall into this state for no reason?


    (There are three disciples in particular who would dare to authoritatively disagree with this proclamation regarding the garden¡¯s abandonment: their master has punished them with gardening duty so often they could navigate this winding cobblestone path blindfolded! To hear her claim that she alone is responsible for the welfare of this place?! Their very hearts would shrivel! Shameless!!!)


    Preceptor Ari turns to the man, and her expression is for once entirely serious. ¡°I¡¯m sure you know you won¡¯t be able to bring your daughter home once this is done.¡±


    When the man offers no reply except a bowed head, her tone gentles. ¡°It¡¯s a royal edict, I¡¯m afraid. Anyone blessed by the True Sun must be taught and supervised by a coven until a master deems them fully in control of their abilities. Even if she decides to live elsewhere after she passes her Crucible and pursues some other trade, she¡¯ll remain under Kachai Coven¡¯s oversight. But¡ª¡± her hand sweeps out towards the overgrown yet serene beauty around them, ¡°¡ªit isn¡¯t a prison sentence, joining the covens. Our people live well. She won¡¯t go hungry, she won¡¯t be persecuted, and she¡¯ll earn a cut of the profits from every assignment she completes. And you won¡¯t be separated from her forever, either: commonfolk are welcome to visit friends and relatives still in training with the permission of the Head Preceptor, or during certain holidays and ceremonies.¡±


    Times certainly had changed, the Preceptor thinks, not unkindly.


    It was no surprise, really, that a queen so intimately familiar with the workings of the storied mage sects of Imtheria would model her own pet cults after them. Few people on this side of the Worldrift knew how the sects of Imtheria and Saimr¡¯s own Red Citadel differed, but the Preceptor was one of those people.


    Before the war, the Red Citadel at the peak of its power and influence had served as Saimr¡¯s sole institution of higher arcane learning¡ªand the governing body that ruled the kingdom¡¯s officially-ordained mages. The Citadel¡¯s archmages answered only to the old king, and only the Citadel could confer the right to practice magic within Saimr¡¯s borders to those outside of the priesthood. Unlawful practice of the arcane arts was a crime punishable by death, but mages recognized by the Citadel were immune to these laws (and many others). To wear the ruby ring of a Citadel mage was a privilege envied by nobles, merchants, and commonfolk alike. Some mages were granted positions of esteem inside the royal court; others became members of prestigious guilds or served as bodyguards for the rich and powerful. Many noble families were willing to pay handsomely for the Citadel to train their scions, and for the right price the Citadel was willing to grant its ruby rings to anyone with a lick of magical talent.


    Theoretically, even peasants could improve their fortune if they were admitted to the Red Citadel, and there were a great many tales about folk heroes who had done just that¡ªbut in reality, how often did such a thing occur? The answer: very rarely. The truth was that the laws prohibiting the unregulated practice of arcane arts were largely used by the nobility to suppress the masses (and by the old king to curb the rise of any potential unexpected rivals¡ªhe¡¯d learned that lesson during the so-called Phoenix King¡¯s Rebellion). With no resources available to teach them and so many barriers in place to prevent them from honing their skills, how could any lowborn laborer hope to pass the Citadel¡¯s entrance exams? Not to mention the difficulty and expense of crossing the kingdom to reach the Citadel in the first place! Even those very lucky few who managed to enter the Citadel¡¯s gates would soon discover that without a family name or any coin behind them, they would likely be relegated to the positions that nobody else wanted.


    And so most of the Citadel¡¯s mages came from well-to-do families who could afford to hire tutors in secret or bribe officials to look the other way. And of course many of those mages returned to those same families to safeguard their wealth and power. A few set out on their own to join the mage guilds, but these guilds only provided services at a premium to those nobles and merchants without the good fortune to have a mage in the family to call upon. If the common people faced the threat of monsters or arcane anomalies or restless spirits? Oh well. Unless they scrounged up a hefty enough collection to tempt a mage guild to deal with the problem, or the issue interrupted their tithes, they were left to deal with things on their own. The priesthood was capable of handling some of these issues, but the price of the blood tithe often increased in turn.


    But in Imtheria, things were very different. For one, arcane talent was far more prevalent. Because the Amnion¡ªthe veil dividing the material plane from the raw creative energies of the Aether¡ªwas thin there, both mages and magical threats were quite commonplace. With so many dangers facing every settlement, nurturing arcane talent to defend them was paramount. No divine monarch in Imtheria spared any expense in establishing infrastructure to support this. Each Imtherian city-state boasted at least one mage sect and usually a corps of elite royal mages under the direct command of the divine monarch. These mage sects accepted and trained all souls who displayed even a spark of arcane talent.


    Even though many of these initiates would not ultimately pass their exams, the sect¡¯s education extended beyond arcane theory; they also taught reading and arithmetic, history and rhetoric, fine arts and mundane sciences. Those who passed their exams and became full-fledged mages could serve the sect in a variety of roles, and while not all of them were equally prestigious, they were all comfortably-compensated. Those who did not might become meritorious civil servants. The sects handled problems of all sorts for people of all types, and while they charged a nominal fee for their services, their costs were offset by contributions from the royal treasury and by donations from the city-state¡¯s noble houses. This system provided each city-state with both an educated middle class and a body of experienced arcanists who could provide martial and civil support alike.


    (The downside of this system was that every divine monarch also had to contend with the headache of a dozen or more elite mage houses bickering with each other and the crown, and occasionally producing legitimate threats to their rule.)


    In Leviathan, the subterranean city-state where God-Queen Velnyr was born and had lived the first century of her life, even more focus was placed on engineering stronger and stronger generations of mages. The queen herself was a result of such efforts, and no one could argue that however cut-throat these measures were, they certainly yielded results.


    Immediately following her ascension to the throne, God-Queen Velnyr had restructured the Red Citadel entirely (and faced almost no opposition in the process, as so many of its prominent faces had already died during the war¨Cto say nothing of the fact that every noble family in the kingdom was thoroughly under her thumb on threat of death or worse). Now she had founded the covens as well, each one a combination of mage sect and monastery. It was a tidy way to handily wrangle the continuing threat of rogue witches, put what little remained of the Dawn to good use, and of course to further cement the queen¡¯s own cult of divine personality.


    Who would expect anything less from the legendary Black Blade of Leviathan?


    Preceptor Ari isn¡¯t entirely aware that she¡¯s slipped into a reverie until the man next to her stirs, an enormous sigh heaving from his sunken chest.


    ¡°Alright,¡± he says slowly. ¡°When can we start?¡±

 2: A Royal Invitation

    Chapter 2: A Royal Invitation


    The Time: Present day, 720 A.E.


    The Place: Kachai Fortress, on the outskirts of the city of Vaomeze, in the province of Shenevi


    When the two of them finally return to the pavilion, they find things mostly as they left them: a scrawny little girl stuffing her face with leftover pastries, a scrawny black sighthound regarding her wearily from beneath the table, and¡ªthe one new addition¡ªan exceedingly lovely young man sitting in one of the chairs across from her, idly plucking the three strings of a long, nearly coffin-shaped lute.


    The melody he spins is as gentle and refined as his countenance. In the light of the late afternoon sun, his bronze skin is aglow; his carefully-coiffed snow-white curls are gilded. His hazel eyes are framed by thick, equally pale lashes. Though his frame is slender, it does not lack for willowy strength or ethereal grace¡ªa grace explained at once by the long, delicate sweep of his ears, both adorned with plain golden cuffs. He wears the plainer midnight blue robes of the Kachai Coven¡¯s disciples, but around his waist is a silken bronze sash that denotes him as a senior. There is a cream-colored porcelain mask strapped to his hip as well, its details impossible to discern at this angle.


    The man blinks in faint bafflement. It is not impossible to find elves in God-Queen Velnyr¡¯s Saimr, it¡¯s only that most of them remain in and around the royal capital. To see one this far north, in such a remote area, is still a little shocking. The man himself has never encountered one in person, and he briefly finds himself wrong-footed. No one he has ever spoken to has mentioned ¡°elves¡± in the same sentence as ¡°humility, generosity, or kindness¡±.


    But when the elven youth lifts his head, those striking hazel eyes squinting against the sun, his expression becomes lamb-soft and gentle, his shapely lips immediately curling into a sweetly deferential smile. His elegant fingers still on a final note, and he rises in one fluid motion to bow respectfully to the two figures approaching him.


    ¡°Sahan,¡± he greets the Preceptor warmly. Then, to the man¡¯s surprise, he nods to him and offers him a faintly accented, ¡°Good sir. Welcome to Kachai Fortress. I trust your stay has been pleasant thus far?¡±


    The man opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Finally, he blurts out, ¡°Uh¡ªyes! Yes, very much so. Th-thank you.¡±


    The youth only smiles amiably. ¡°Wonderful. This disciple will ensure the remainder of your time with us is equally satisfactory. Should you require anything else after Sahan departs, please do not hesitate to ask for me. Simply inform any of the attendants in brown that you wish to see Disciple Ambren, and I will come at once.¡±


    Utterly dazzled by this unexpected gem of a boy, the man can only nod. What beauty! What incredible decorum! What poise, what style! He can hardly bear to look upon the youth¡¯s shining face directly. If his daughter had been somewhat older, he could not have helped plotting her impending marriage to this upright princeling with all haste.


    It seems Nila, too, is quite taken with the young man, for she frowns tremendously when he stops playing (though she can make no rebuke, as her mouth is currently filled with peach preserves).


    The Preceptor grants the elven youth, who must be her own disciple, an easy-going grin. ¡°Hey, kiddo. The Grand Matron didn¡¯t run you ragged all day, did she? If she keeps asking to borrow you, I¡¯m gonna start charging her by the hour.¡±


    The youth laughs quietly. Even his laugh sounds like the tinkling of the finest chimes! What a treasure it would be to have such a son-in-law!


    ¡°Sahan need not worry about this disciple. It is this disciple¡¯s pleasure to bring honor to Sahan¡¯s name in all things.¡±


    The man nearly weeps tears of bitter jealousy.


    The Preceptor, though, rolls her eyes as if much put-upon. ¡°Alright, alright, that¡¯s laying it on a little thick. Just get some rest tonight. Don¡¯t worry about being up for recitations tomorrow; I¡¯ll tell the High Priestess I kept you up all night pushing paperwork.¡±


    The young man shakes his head with a wry smile. ¡°Please don¡¯t lie to the High Priestess on this disciple¡¯s account, Sahan¡­¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± Preceptor Ari asks easily. ¡°I lie to her all the time for worse reasons.¡±


    Ambren just sighs, pressing two graceful beringed fingers to his temple. But after a moment his expression turns complicated. ¡°Ah¡ªI nearly forgot. The Grand Matron wished to speak with you directly once this matter is concluded, Sahan.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± The Preceptor cocks her head. Her expression remains light, tinged with good humor, but the faintest tension tightens her shoulders. ¡°So formal. Alright. I¡¯ll head over once I wrap this up.¡±


    The youth bows again and steps back, clearly about to excuse himself, but the Preceptor clears her throat pointedly. ¡°Hey. Next time you catch Ranan and Tselai arguing, tell them that dragonhead fountain on the east wall of the garden needs cleaning again. And if you catch them fighting outside of the sparring grounds, tell them to clean the fountain and scrub the cobblestones. All of them. Oh, and¡ª¡± From the bundle of summer gentians tucked in the crook of her arm, the Preceptor extracts three small blooms and passes them over. ¡°For your¡­ flower pressing book. Thing.¡±


    Ambren makes a small, pleased sound of surprise. This tiny gift brings stars to his beautiful eyes. ¡°Oh! I hadn¡¯t yet gotten the chance to pick any of the gentians this season, the Grand Matron has kept me so busy... Thank you very much, Sahan.¡± He bows over his hands, beaming.


    The Preceptor reaches up with her free hand, ruffling his stylish coif. He doesn¡¯t seem to mind. ¡°Alright, get out of here. Don¡¯t skip dinner. If I find out you didn¡¯t visit the mess hall tonight I¡¯ll have you out sweeping cobblestones with those two knuckleheads tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Sahan,¡± the youth replies modestly, and then he turns on his heel and is gone with a swishing of fine fabric, the three little flowers tucked safely into his pocket.


    ¡°Nooooo,¡± the little girl whines broken-heartedly. ¡°He was so pretty. Make him come back!¡±


    The man finds himself somewhat inclined to agree.


    Preceptor Ari just laughs and hands the rest of the gentian bouquet to Nila, who stares at it stiffly for a long moment before cautiously accepting, holding the blooms like they¡¯re made of fragile glass. ¡°Oh¡­¡± She regards the flowers with a furrowed brow, and then turns that faithless expression on the Preceptor. ¡°They¡¯re pretty too, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Mm,¡± the Preceptor agrees. ¡°Your atu told me you liked blue.¡±


    ¡°...Yeah,¡± the girl says finally, some of her earlier frostiness thawing. ¡°It¡¯s my favorite.¡±


    The Preceptor settles back down at the table. ¡°That¡¯s pretty cool. I like blue too.¡± She raises a hand and tugs at the lapel of her deep blue coat with its bronze buttons. ¡°See?¡±


    The little girl narrows her eyes. ¡°Everyone here wears blue¡­¡±


    ¡°And? We all like it,¡± the Preceptor responds with a grin. ¡°You can wear blue here too, you know.¡±


    The girl perks up at this. Back home, such well-spun, richly-dyed fabrics would be far too expensive for Atu to afford. ¡°I can?¡±


    ¡°Mhm. I¡¯ll let you talk to your atu about it later. For now¡­¡± the Preceptor lays her hand palm-up on the table, carefully avoiding the jumble of little plates speckled with crumbs. Her fingernails are still crusted with dirt; the sight makes Nila oddly more comfortable. ¡°Why don¡¯t you give me your hand and we¡¯ll see what we can do about this fever you¡¯ve been having?¡±


    ***


    It¡¯s past sundown by the time Ari finally arrives at the Grand Matron¡¯s office. She walks with markedly less pep than before as she trudges through Kachai Fortress¡¯s maze of halls and towers. The lanky black dog follows sedately behind her, occasionally drawing directly alongside her to nudge her hand with its long, wet nose. Ari pats the beast¡¯s head absently.


    Most of the witches she passes greet her with a respectful nod (if they don¡¯t know her) or a cheerful wave (if they do). The crisp, dapper lines of her long, high-collared coat and the bronze epaulettes on her shoulders mark her as a Preceptor, so the juniors who¡¯ve never met her regard her with something between awe and fear. But her more familiar comrades know this Preceptor is no stickler for appearances or propriety.


    Still, her usually cheerful countenance is gloomy enough now that even her most familiar comrades decide not to bother her for a friendly chat at the moment.


    Head lowered, Ari allows muscle memory to guide her while she sulks. Having spent no small amount of time wandering these same halls in her youth, there¡¯s no need for her to pay close attention to her surroundings. Back in the day, Kachai Fortress had been the Dawn¡¯s heart and soul, a sprawling compound constructed according to the Prophet¡¯s desires with the aid of Shenevi province¡¯s Red Prince¡ªa man thoroughly bewitched by the Prophet¡¯s Beguiling Flame and therefore willing to grant her every request. Even after Seda began expanding her influence, Kachai Fortress remained her sanctuary, and she took every opportunity to return when no pressing matters required her personal attention.


    After Seda¡¯s death and the Dawn¡¯s dissolution, Kachai Fortress had not been abandoned for long before God-Queen Velnyr reclaimed it in her own name. Still, despite its historical and (debatably) personal significance to the queen, she¡¯d had little interest in it beyond appointing it as a new coven stronghold beneath Grand Matron Hvasira. In time, Kachai Coven became one of Saimr¡¯s five major sects, but out of these top five, it was the most remote and the least influential.


    It had been the perfect place for Ari to make her reappearance¡ªa familiar setting, but filled with new faces now, faces who didn¡¯t recognize her. She¡¯d been able to establish a new identity with little fuss; there were plenty of cast-offs from the Dawn who¡¯d wandered back to some coven or another after the queen¡¯s ascension. Ari couldn¡¯t have passed herself off as some green newly-seeded acolyte if her life depended on it (and it did), so Kachai Coven¡¯s relative indifference towards her past was an absolute blessing.


    Only the Grand Matron had recognized who she truly was.


    Ari sighs. In so many ways, having her slate wiped clean was a gift beyond measure, but¡­ Once, she could¡¯ve righted a spiritual aberration like Nila¡¯s in a matter of minutes. Now, with her most defining techniques hidden away to save her own hide, she¡¯s working with a hand and both feet tied.


    She¡¯d had to pretty much rebuild the kid¡¯s pneuma from the ground up and then carve her spiritual circulatory system out vein by vein. It was a long, grueling process, and to make matters more exhausting she¡¯d had to shield the poor dove¡¯s mind the entire time. Having one¡¯s entire spiritual core uprooted was absolutely excruciating. Ari could head that pain off at the pass with the aid of the Beguiling Flame, one of the eight Exalted Solar Arts, but relying too heavily on the Beguiling Flame for too long carried its own set of equally-dangerous risks for her hapless patient.


    It would be no exaggeration at all to say that Ari is the only Preceptor¡ªno, the only witch of any sort¡ªin the Kachai Coven who can do such a thing. She is, in all honesty, the only witch in any coven who has such innate mastery over soulcraft of this variety. Everyone in the fortress knows that of the coven¡¯s preceptors, Ari is the best-suited to handling spiritual aberrations, but only the Grand Matron truly has an inkling of just how much she can do with only the basic pneumatic alignment techniques every witch learns.


    And even all of this is merely a flickering candle in the face of the blazing inferno she¡¯d once commanded.


    If she¡¯d lost the ability to wield the Exalted Arts after her ignominious death, that would¡¯ve been one thing. But she didn¡¯t. If anything, she¡¯s stronger now than she was as Saint Batira¡ªand she can¡¯t do a damn thing with it. Not if she wants to avoid a second death so soon after the first, or worse. Her dear master was most capable of delivering fates that made death a benediction.


    Some time later, Ari ascends the final set of stairs leading up to the Grand Matron¡¯s office in the central tower. Baza¡¯s claws click on the polished wood, never more than a couple steps behind. She¡¯s tired, she¡¯s sore, she could definitely use a bath, and the mekhode inside her skin sting mightily with the effort of maintaining a steady flow of numina for several hours uninterrupted.


    When Ari was younger, she¡¯d suffered endlessly from possessing a soul that was stronger than the body it inhabited. It was her own Sahan who had inked the mekhode upon her skin when she was sixteen, utilizing some no-doubt ancient and mystical technique that Ari has yet to have ever seen or heard about again. It took hours, it hurt like an absolute motherfucker, and she cried so hard she threw up twice and passed out once, but when it was over she¡¯d never again experienced the sorts of colossal pneumatic disruptions that had plagued her early youth.


    What good fortune, she reflects sourly, that she¡¯d chanced across a master so capable, so knowledgeable, so generous with her time and energy. Without her sahan¡¯s intervention, not only would she have never amounted to much at all, she probably would¡¯ve kicked the bucket before she even reached the age of majority. With her sahan¡¯s intervention, she¡¯d managed to make it to the ripe old age of 25 before being slaughtered for her master¡¯s sake over a sense of fathomless devotion that had never been returned! Incredible! Another truly awe-inspiring accomplishment to lay at the feet of Saimr¡¯s most holy.


    The little overgrown pleasure garden isn¡¯t the only thing Ari¡¯s master nurtured and then abandoned once it outlived its use.


    With such cheerful thoughts buzzing around in her head, it¡¯s no surprise that when she finally barges into the Grand Matron¡¯s office without knocking, Baza in tow, she looks like she¡¯s just swallowed a hornet¡¯s nest.


    Seated behind her huge, ornate desk, Grand Matron Hvasira doesn¡¯t bother looking up from the stack of parchment in front of her before addressing her visitor. ¡°Are you really that angry about me borrowing your senior disciple every once in a while? Honestly. That boy is wasted on you. I should¡¯ve steered him towards administration when I had the chance.¡±


    ¡°¡­That¡¯s not why I was angry before, but I¡¯m a little angry about it now.¡±


    The Grand Matron flaps her free hand dismissively. ¡°Good luck holding onto him once he passes his Crucible. Mother Tanavi, Mother Rusala, and Mother Misery have all asked me about him.¡±


    Ari can only swallow a sigh. ¡°He can go wherever he wants once he graduates, you know that.¡± A long pause. ¡°But if Mother Misery thinks she¡¯s got a chance in the Thousand Hells at poaching him off me, she¡¯s dreaming.¡±


    Matrons are a coven¡¯s most skilled masters of the eight Exalted Arts. While technically a Matron and a Preceptor might be of equivalent skill, Matrons are experienced, devoted practitioners hand-picked by a Grand Matron to lead one of the coven¡¯s martial branches.


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    Every coven is divided into anywhere between two and eight martial branches depending on the number of matrons of distinct talent the coven possesses. Kachai Coven is fortunate enough to boast six matrons of unique skill and is therefore divided into six branches according to the Exalted Art each of its matrons specializes in. Of the five major covens, three have six branches, one has seven, and only one has all eight¡ªand then only on a technicality, as the matron of the final Exalted Art is the only member of the entire coven who practices her discipline (and, Ari might add, she hasn¡¯t mastered that discipline either! She¡¯s hardly a novice! It¡¯s just that the final Exalted Art is so rarely expressed that any talent for it, no matter how mediocre, is prized beyond belief).


    Once a young witch passes their Crucible and becomes an Adept, they¡¯re free to serve any martial branch that will accept them¡ªand of course especially talented new Adepts might be bombarded with requests from multiple branches. Ambren would likely become one such Adept. Truly, the Grand Matron isn¡¯t wrong: Ari is very lucky that he chose to apprentice under her, especially considering she has next to no aptitude for the Exalted Art he specializes in. She had asked him multiple times when he was still an Acolyte if he was really, super sure he wanted to tie his fate to a master who could teach him only the bare basics of his discipline when there were far more suitable alternatives who would have eagerly taken him on, but Ambren had been quite certain.


    Sometimes she can¡¯t help but feel guilty anyway.


    The Grand Matron carefully sets down her pen, rotates her wrist to elicit a few satisfying cracks, and then leans back in her chair with a bone-weary sigh. On the parts of her face left uncovered by her golden mask¡ªcarved into a shape reminiscent of a wolf¡¯s snarling muzzle¨Cher tanned skin looks sallower than usual, and her typically unimpeachable dark brown crown braid is littered with fly-aways. ¡°I assume I don¡¯t have to ask if you had any trouble sorting out that peasant girl.¡±


    Ari tips her head. ¡°Nah. Of course not. But if you don¡¯t mind skipping the bullshit small-talk part, Ambren mentioned you wanted to see me personally.¡±


    Grand Matron Hvasira emits a dry sound that might be called a chuckle, if one was being favorable, and stands up from her desk. Like Ari, she¡¯s remarkably tall and well-built for a Saimerian woman. Also like Ari, there¡¯s probably some godsblood somewhere far back in her family tree. Some people are just naturally large and robust, of course, but large, robust, and exceptionally magically adept? That¡¯s usually a fine hint at divine heritage.


    With a snap of the Grand Matron¡¯s fingers, the faint orange flames on the tallow candles and lanterns scattered about her office brighten cheerily, and the heavy wooden door behind Ari clicks shut. A moment later, a line of script carved into the frame flares to life with a soft hum.


    This is a silencing spell, of course, and the fact that the Grand Matron is bothering with it immediately puts Ari on edge.


    She eyeballs her elder suspiciously as the woman leisurely moves to the fine cabinet in the corner and withdraws a heavy glass bottle of amber wine and two glasses.


    ¡°That bad, huh?¡± Ari asks.


    ¡°Something like that.¡± Grand Matron Hvasira returns to her desk and busies herself pouring two generous glasses of cider-colored wine before pushing one in Ari¡¯s direction and resuming her seat. ¡°Drink first,¡± she advises.


    Despite the anxious churning in her gut, Ari complies wordlessly, sinking into the cushioned armchair opposite the Grand Matron that¡¯s reserved for guests and letting the warm, nutty aroma of the wine numb her nose a bit before she downs her first sip. Baza settles silently next to her.


    The wine is a better vintage than she¡¯s had in some time¡ªthough she makes good coin on a preceptor¡¯s stipend, and though trade to the north improved after the war¡¯s end, some goods are simply harder to come by here than they would be in the more temperate, bustling central and southern provinces.


    Once her glass is half empty, Ari clears her throat. ¡°Well, I¡¯m as ready as I¡¯m going to get, I think.¡±


    Grand Matron Hvasira grunts but doesn¡¯t respond immediately. Instead, she rifles through the daunting stack of papers on her desk and withdraws a worryingly high-quality scroll. Ari doesn¡¯t have to examine it closely to feel the faint, burnt-out essence of a spent protective seal lingering on the parchment.


    Oh. That¡¯s not good. That¡¯s a very expensive piece of paper.


    The Grand Matron offers the rolled-up scroll to Ari, who accepts it with the reluctance of someone being handed a pissed-off venomous serpent. She unfurls it with a clouded brow, scans it once with great haste, and immediately freezes. Penned in the tidy, ornate hand of an experienced scribe and sandwiched between two hunks of flowery filler text are a few simple lines that turn Ari¡¯s gut to stone:


    During the week of the spring solstice, the following dignitaries and disciples from the Kachai Coven are most graciously invited to join their fellows and partake in the Royal Palace of Tsimeda¡¯s inaugural celebration of the Rites of Devotion in Her Worship¡¯s honor.


    Grand Matron Hvasira Eichani


    Matron Tanavi Barvuri


    Matron Asali ei-Haora


    Matron Enahi Nzameni


    Matron Jairani Udzelari


    Matron Rusala Oghamani


    Matron Dzamia Teiluri


    Preceptor Lenara Hanjaveni


    Preceptor Arivasi ei-Gazra


    ¡­


    The letter continues on in this vein for several paragraphs, providing exact details for travel, food, lodging, and the ceremony itself, but Ari¡¯s mind has turned to fuzz well before she reaches them, endlessly circulating with the afterimage of her own alias.


    Arivasi ei-Gazra. Not her birth name, naturally, but close enough. Arivasi of Gazra. Unremarkable from start to end: a peasant¡¯s name, or an orphan¡¯s, imparting only the place of her ¡°birth¡±. There¡¯s truth in that, too. The swathe of charming broadleaf forest called Gazra was where she crawled out of the mass grave that held her broken corpse for two years. Only the locals had known the name of that anonymous stretch of forest and by now all of them were dead or dispersed; it had seemed a relatively safe bet to adopt it as her byname.


    The Grand Matron is looking everywhere but at her.


    Her ribcage is a vise around her heart; her lungs are filled with tufts of cotton. The room around her is wispy and immaterial. She forces herself to cycle her breathing, to force the panic welling in her throat to recede by cataloguing every detail of that air¡¯s progress through her body.


    Baza whines, very quietly, and puts her head in Ari¡¯s lap. Ari gratefully scratches her soft, floppy ears.


    Alright. Alright. She¡¯s fine. None of this is about her.


    Her sahan doesn¡¯t know. Of this, Ari is certain. If she knew, she would already have sent someone to handle her former disciple swiftly and discreetly (Ari dares not consider the idea that she might deign to come personally, to grant her worthless apprentice the honor of a true and final death by her own hands. It would be beneath her). This truly has nothing to do with her¡ªthe very idea is absurd to the point of hilarity¡ªand yet she cannot stop the tremors in her fingers.


    Once she¡¯s sure her voice won¡¯t break, she speaks. ¡°Wow. Big party.¡± Her tone is flat to the point of monotony, but it¡¯s the best she can do.


    She raises the wine glass to her lips and drains the other half in one go, heedless of the droplets that trail down her chin.


    Grand Matron Hvasira hums noncommittally, neither fretful nor pitying. All at once, she reminds Ari so much of Saint Nehasi¨Cthe Grand Matron¡¯s own sahan¡ªthat it strikes her with the force of a blow to the solar plexus. Once upon a time, the Red Princes had called Nehasi the Black Iron Bitch, and she¡¯d deserved every word. When she took Hvasira as her disciple, those same princes sneeringly referred to her as the Little Iron Lady.


    There wasn¡¯t a lord alive now who¡¯d dare use that moniker in hearing distance of Kachai¡¯s Grand Matron.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± the Little Iron Lady says simply. ¡°It is. It¡¯ll be the queen¡¯s first proper Rites of Devotion ceremony since she ascended. The whole fucking continent¡¯ll turn out.¡±


    It¡¯s not even an exaggeration. Every lord, every merchant guild, every prominent mage, every general in Saimr will be scrambling for an invitation to an event like this. Rites of Devotion are spiritually significant for the queen¡¯s flock, magically significant for the queen herself, and politically significant for every power player across Ulor¡ªand probably beyond, given the queen¡¯s lineage. It¡¯s the most prime opportunity possible for the ambitious, the conniving, the desperate, and the just plain curious to build new alliances, sabotage rivals, arrange marriages, curry favor with the new crop of favored officials, establish a name for oneself in duels or competitions, and potentially impress the queen herself with a sufficiently lavish offering.


    A gathering like this could set the tone of the queen¡¯s rule for years to come, for ill or for good. It will be grand. It will be expensive. It will be dangerous.


    Ari could not possibly have less desire to attend, but she was invited by name. If she doesn¡¯t show up, it¡¯s a slight to the crown¡ªbut she¡¯s also merely a single humdrum preceptor. It would be a¡­ very minor slight. It¡¯s not like she cares literally at all about her own reputation and really, the best case scenario for her is to be overlooked and forgotten. If she feigns illness or whatever, the worst that happens is a few people she¡¯s probably never met and doesn¡¯t care about bad-mouth her for a day and then forget she was ever supposed to attend in the first place.


    The tight knot of fear in her chest loosens. Hah. What an overreaction, and for no reason!


    She glances up at the Grand Matron. Her relief must show on her face, because the woman across from her just shakes her head. ¡°Finish reading the list of invitees.¡±


    Perplexed, Ari looks back down at the scroll and discovers that the list of names does in fact continue past her own. There are maybe fifteen more, but there are only three that make her heart clench with utter dread.


    Senior Disciple Ambren Ivellios


    Disciple Tselai Vatsalavi


    Disciple Ranan ei-Vaomeze


    Fuuuuuuuck. Her own disciples? All three of them?!


    ¡°Fell Empress have mercy,¡± Ari says limply.


    ¡°Not one of her better-known traits, I¡¯m afraid,¡± the Grand Matron replies.


    Ari sets the scroll down on the desk and squeezes the bridge of her nose until she sees stars behind her eyelids.


    Despair.


    She has to go. How can she not? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for her disciples. As their master, she has an obligation to attend, to guide and encourage them, to protect and support them. It¡¯s not about saving face as a preceptor; if she doesn¡¯t go, no one else is going to fight for her disciples as hard as she would. The other preceptors and matrons will have their own disciples to show off. They might not let any harm come to hers, but they¡¯ll be in a prime position to shunt them off to the side so their apprentices can shine all the brighter.


    Her brain whirs feverishly.


    Ranan was a street urchin before the coven took him in. If he plays his cards right, he could spin himself a great many more opportunities for his future than remaining at Kachai, if that¡¯s what he wants. Tselai is a lordling, a close cousin of Shenevi¡¯s Royal Governor (and a relative of the former Red Prince Velaizo, more distantly) and second in line to inherit the Governor¡¯s estate. Of course he has to go; this is a perfect chance for him to build connections that will benefit him enormously later.


    And Ambren¡ªAmbren is an exile, forced out of his grasping, shitty, superstitious mid-rate clan when he was just a kid. Even if Ambren doesn¡¯t care about getting sweet revenge on them, Ari does. She wants him to strut around before them, proud and accomplished, a personal guest of the queen herself (that¡¯s a bit of a stretch, but it¡¯s true that being invited to this ceremony by name is a significant achievement).


    Ari drops her head into her hands, defeated. ¡°Shit.¡±


    The Grand Matron just nods, utterly unsurprised. She pours Ari a second glass of wine, which at least proves she has a more merciful heart than her old master. ¡°I¡¯ll be holding a proper meeting with everyone on that list later this week. We¡¯ve got a lot to prepare and not a lot of time to do it. None of your brats have heard the news yet¡ªI don¡¯t care if you tell them yourself, but for fuck¡¯s sake don¡¯t let them blab about it. Ranan, especially.¡±


    Ari drinks as much of the second glass as she can manage in a single swallow. It burns all the way down. Her head is pounding.


    ¡°It¡¯ll be packed.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± the Grand Matron says flatly.


    ¡°That many people¡­ If someone from back then just happens to recognize me¡­ If she finds out¡­¡± Ari trails off helplessly. ¡°What in the hells am I supposed to do?¡±


    ¡°Cross that bridge when we come to it.¡±


    That is decidedly not a good plan when approaching anything involving Ari¡¯s sahan. She¡¯ll¡ªhave to come up with something. Some kind of contingency plan to keep the kids safe if nothing else. On the one hand, Sahan has no real reason to target anyone but Ari (and possibly the Grand Matron, if she finds out she was complicit in hiding Ari¡¯s identity). On the other hand, Sahan is a monster. If she¡¯s angry enough at Ari¡¯s deception, she won¡¯t hesitate to make her precious disciple¡¯s last moments as miserable as possible at the cost of a few innocent lives.


    ¡°I¡¯m getting tired of looking at your pitiful face, and I don¡¯t have another bottle of this wine in storage,¡± Grand Matron Hvasira grouses. ¡°Down that glass and get out of here. Sleep on it. It can¡¯t be that fucking hard to keep your head down for a week.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the nicest thing you¡¯ve ever said to me,¡± Ari deadpans. But she does finish the second glass of wine, and she does leave directly afterwards. Baza follows her faithfully as she wanders the halls in a daze, stopping periodically to stare at the sky through the windows. The few people she passes look at her with some concern, but they don¡¯t stop to bother her.


    It¡¯s fully dark by the time she finally drags her sorry carcass to her quarters in the western tower. Some people call it the Tower of Masters; it¡¯s where the coven¡¯s matrons, preceptors, and some senior adepts have their lodgings.


    Her own apartment isn¡¯t huge or anything, but it¡¯s comfortable and well-appointed with a private bath and a modest private kitchen, though she¡¯s in no mood to make use of either at the moment. She doesn¡¯t so much as light a lantern or kick off her boots after she closes the door.


    For a long while she simply sits on the edge of her bed and stares at the wall. Baza hops up next to her. They huddle together in silence until Ari finally heaves a deep, gusty sigh and wraps her arm around Baza¡¯s long neck. The furry body next to her is whip-thin and bony, but the comfort radiating from it is indescribable. Baza echoes her tired sigh, her big dark eyes just visible in the moonlight sneaking through the curtains over the big arched window on the opposite wall.


    With no one else around to hear, Ari scratches the dog¡¯s chin and whispers, ¡°Ah, my Varul¡­ Are you excited to see your old owner?¡±


    For a few breaths there¡¯s no response. But a moment later, ¡°Baza¡± lifts her black lips to expose teeth that seem suddenly to be too long and too sharp to fit in her slender muzzle. The growl that pours from her chest is no sound that any dog has ever made.


    Ari can¡¯t help but chuckle. ¡°Yeah, me too.¡± She strokes the dog¡¯s silky ears, and immediately all is as it should be. Baza¨CVarul¡ªblinks wet black eyes at her, snuffles her cheek with a wet black nose.


    Gradually, Ari becomes aware of an aroma emanating from the little-used desk pushed up against the wall next to the door. Following her own nose, Ari lights her wall sconces with a snap of her fingers and then moves to the desk to investigate.


    On her desk is a wooden tray laden with a small, carefully-covered clay crock and a thick hunk of dark rye bread thoroughly wrapped in wax paper and twine from the kitchens. The crock is still steaming when she lifts the lid, and the mouth-watering aroma of barbecued pork, roasted peppers, and fresh coriander and fenugreek does battle with her nose. Next to the thoughtfully-included spoon is a small, folded, unsigned note penned in a relentlessly elegant hand.


    Now you can¡¯t say I never visited the mess hall.


    Ambren. Fell Empress bless that kid a thousand times over.


    ¡°Aww,¡± Ari says aloud. ¡°Supper, Varul!¡±


    As expected, Varul makes no move to join her as she sits to eat. She¡¯s not a dog, after all. Her meals don¡¯t come from a bowl.


    Ari eats with single-minded intensity, and once she¡¯s done, she crawls directly into bed without bothering to change out of her uniform. Varul rests her long head on Ari¡¯s stomach.


    She¡¯s expecting to spend all night tossing and turning. She doesn¡¯t. In fact, she falls asleep almost instantly, exhaustion dragging her ruthlessly under.


    She dreams of a wall. She dreams of being suspended upon it. She dreams of a knife through her throat, of the blood that gurgles ceaselessly in her esophagus around it. She dreams of a blade pinned through each shoulder, of the screaming agony in each tender ligament.


    She dreams of a figure standing motionless beneath her, watching, examining her like a butterfly pinned to a board. She can¡¯t make out its face, but she knows who it is. She tries to call its name, but all she can manage is a horrible, hoarse moan.


    All at once, the figure turns and begins to walk.


    Ari doesn¡¯t care about the knife in her throat, about the blades in her shoulders. Suddenly she¡¯s on the ground and she¡¯s crawling, crawling after that indistinct shadow, but she¡¯s not fast enough. There¡¯s dust in her teeth and gravel embedded in her palms and sweat in her eyes. There¡¯s blood leaking in a heavy slug trail behind her.


    Please don¡¯t leave me. Please. Sahan, please. Please!


    I¡¯m sorry, whatever I did. Whatever I said. Please just come back. I don¡¯t want to be alone. I don¡¯t want to die. Please come back. Please come back, Sahan. Please take me with you. I just want to be with you.


    I don¡¯t want to die. Please help me.


    Please.


    Please¡­