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


 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!


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    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¡­

 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.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°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.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    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¨C-Varul¡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¡­

 Extra 1: Coven Hierarchy

    ALT TEXT


    -Grand Matron: Grand Matrons lead the covens. These elite witches are often masters of at least two Exalted Arts and are elected into their positions by a council of peers in a simple majority vote (with the God-Queen¡¯s approval). They¡¯re referred to as Grand Matron or by the Blessed word ¡°Asazim/-asazim¡±.


    -Matron: Matrons are recognized masters of at least one Exalted Art. Matrons head the covens¡¯ martial branches and are appointed by their coven¡¯s Grand Matron. They¡¯re responsible for overseeing many of the coven¡¯s day-to-day functions. They can be referred to as Matron, Mother, or by the Blessed word ¡°Azim/-azim¡±. Male Matrons are called Patrons and are addressed as Father.


    -Preceptor: Preceptors are often (but not always) masters of at least one Exalted Art. In terms of raw strength, they¡¯re typically equivalent in power to a Matron. Preceptors are responsible for training the coven¡¯s acolytes and may take on personal disciples as well. They¡¯re referred to as Preceptor, Master, or by the Blessed word ¡°Sahan/-sahan¡±.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    -Senior Adept: Senior Adepts are witches who have yet to master an Exalted Art, though they may be proficient in one or more, but have developed a spiritual weapon. They¡¯re referred to as Senior, or by the Blessed words ¡°Gi?va/-gi?va¡± (for a woman) or ¡°Dai?a/-dai?a¡± (for a man).


    -Adept: Adepts are witches who have passed their Crucible. They¡¯re the covens rank-and-file members. They¡¯re referred to as Sister/Brother, or by the Blessed words ¡°Gir?an/-gir?an¡± (for a woman) or ¡°Daidan/-daidan¡± (for a man).


    -Disciple: Disciples are acolytes who have been apprenticed to a preceptor. They¡¯re referred to as Disciple, or by the Blessed words ¡°Girhe/-girhe¡± (for a woman) or ¡°Daihe/-daihe¡± (for a man).


    -Acolyte: Acolytes are students of any age who have yet to pass their Crucible. They¡¯re referred to as Acolyte, or by the Blessed words ¡°Girhe/-girhe¡± (for a woman) or ¡°Daihe/-daihe¡± (for a man).

 3: Disciples

    Chapter 3: Disciples


    The Time: Present day, 720 AE


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


    The next morning, Senior Disciple Ambren rises bright and early for recitations with High Priestess Jevani.


    His master does not.


    He doesn¡¯t see her at recitations, or at the mess hall for breakfast, or even at the small sparring grounds near the Queen¡¯s Garden that his sahan prefers for her lessons. By this time, the sun has risen well into the sky. Nonplussed, Ambren makes the short trek from the sparring grounds to the garden itself. His master is nowhere to be seen, but he doesn¡¯t even have to lay eyes on them to know that his creed brothers are in this garden somewhere.


    Ambren swallows a sigh and changes direction, following the sound of increasingly unrestrained shouting.


    ¡°You¡¯re such a fucking twat! What is wrong with you?!¡± the first voice snaps belligerently. Its bearing is unpolished, but it is strong of timbre and strong of heart both.


    That would be Ranan.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with me?¡± the second voice retorts incredulously. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with me is that for six months I¡¯ve been sharing a filthy, drafty dorm with a rotten-tongued mongrel who won¡¯t learn to keep his disgusting nose where it belongs! If you truly struggle so much to understand when it is or is not appropriate to read something, then this lord will be only too happy to relieve you of your feckless eyes!¡±


    And¡­ that would be young lord Tselai. In fine form, both of them.


    There comes a terrible sputtering. ¡°Piss off! You think I give a shit what¡¯s in your stupid fucking mail?! You think I wanna read you and your shitty uncle or whatever jerk each other off for twenty pages?! It fell off the dresser! I was picking it up!¡±


    ¡°You¡ª!¡±


    Oh no. Ambren hurries, but it¡¯s too late¡ªthe unmistakable sounds of two adolescent boys beating the stuffing out of each other drown out the sweet chirps of the songbirds. By the time he rounds the corner into a small clearing, two blue-robed figures are exchanging blows so furiously the energy of their strikes rustles the flora around them. If it¡¯s any consolation, Ambren thinks joylessly, his ¡°younger brothers¡± have always been evenly-matched. In the event that their spats devolve into brawls (which is often), they can usually be broken up before either of them receives any significant harm.


    He could throw himself between them, but the boys aren¡¯t yet coordinated enough to hold their blows mid-strike, and Ambren himself is really only a mediocre hand-to-hand combatant. His talents lie elsewhere. He has other ways to stop them if they prove too rowdy, but he¡¯d rather use his words first.


    ¡°Daiheza!¡± he calls. ¡°Enough, please!¡±


    Ranan seems to process what he¡¯s said first and begins to withdraw, but Tselai¡ªthough ordinarily quicker to disengage when caught¡ªuses the opportunity to land a swift and painful-looking palm strike to Ranan¡¯s gut.


    Ambren swallows another sigh. Tselai is either very angry about his mail or very angry that Ranan referred to his lord cousin in such vulgar terms. Probably both.


    Of course, once Ranan is struck, he yowls with rage and throws himself into the fight with renewed vigor. Tselai has naturally had more training than his creed brother, given his background, and he¡¯s also quite a bit quicker than Ranan. But Ranan is far more bull-headed and inexhaustible, and he hits harder.


    Ambren is just raising his hands to pull the two apart by other means when a dark blur shoots past him, light on its feet but moving with such speed and force that it sets the hem of his robe fluttering. Tselai is the first to realize he¡¯s in trouble, but as fast and slippery as he is, he¡¯s nowhere near fast or slippery enough to evade the gloved hand that catches him about the forearm. Helpless in his momentum, Tselai barely has time to brace himself before the figure whirls once and then sends him sailing across the cobblestones to crash in an undignified heap onto a slightly softer patch of open grass nearby.


    Ranan¡¯s fate is no better. In the same breath as Tselai is thrown, one of the figure¡¯s long legs casually strikes out and sweeps the boy¡¯s feet out from under him with breathtaking finality. It¡¯s only the other gloved hand catching him by the collar of his robes that saves him from crashing face-first on the cobblestone at full speed. It¡¯s still a painful landing, though.


    As his two younger creed brothers groan pitifully while they roll around on the ground and catch their breath, Ambren bows over his hands. ¡°Good morning, Sahan.¡± He turns, then, and bows also¡ªin gentle jest¡ªto the black dog meandering down the path towards them. ¡°Good morning, Baza.¡±


    The dog whuffs at him.


    Sahan, it must be said, does not look as though she¡¯s been having a very good morning. Her skin is ordinarily suntanned and glowing, but today it¡¯s decidedly pale and sallow. Her uniform is rumpled, and her plait is loose in several places. She¡¯s still smiling, but there¡¯s a grim cast to it¡ªthought that might be from having to forcibly separate Ranan and Tselai so early in the day.


    Ambren frowns to himself. Had she overextended herself helping that little girl yesterday¡­?


    Ranan, vigorous as ever, is the first to recover. He scrunches into a full kneel, forehead parallel to the ground. ¡°This worthless disciple apologizes to Sahan,¡± he rasps, still clearly a bit out of breath. ¡°Sahan was right to punish him.¡±


    Tselai, not to be outdone, mimics his pose. Through gritted teeth, he manages, ¡°This humble disciple¡­ is also sorry. Many thanks to Sahan for her guidance.¡±


    Sahan, for her part, merely shakes her head. ¡°I wish it was this easy to get you to apologize to each other.¡±


    The boys don¡¯t move.


    ¡°Which you should do.¡±


    The boys still don¡¯t move.


    ¡°Now.¡±


    Both junior disciples stand gingerly, their faces a little bloodless with lingering pain. With expressions as gruesome as two prisoners walking their last, the two face each other and bow as shallowly as they can possibly get away with.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± they intone simultaneously.


    ¡°That sucked,¡± Sahan says. ¡°Do it again. Properly, or I¡¯ll make you hug it out.¡±


    Tselai turns a fascinating array of colors before finally settling on green. Ranan¡ªwho, despite his brashness, has always been more sensitive to Sahan¡¯s displeasure¡ªmerely purses his lips, dark blue eyes stony.


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ sorry for picking up your mail, I guess,¡± he mutters. ¡°Even though it was all over the floor and definitely gonna get trampled. Should¡¯ve left it there.¡±


    Tselai narrows his fox-like green eyes. ¡°And I¡¯m sorry,¡± he says sweetly, ¡°for not expressing to you earlier how vile and inappropriate it is to slander your Royal Governor with such language.¡±


    Ranan¡¯s auburn brows furrow, but before he can make any retort, Sahan strikes both of them upside the head. It¡¯s not a soft strike, either. Tselai yelps and then looks mortified at his own slip-up.


    ¡°You two,¡± Sahan says through gritted teeth, no longer smiling, ¡°are gonna clear this shit up or we¡¯re all going to have a problem. We¡¯re about to have bigger fish to fry than who said what about who or who looked at whose letters. Work it out.¡± She frowns and delivers the killing blow: ¡°I¡¯m disappointed in you both.¡±


    Ranan flinches harder than he had when he was physically struck. Tselai just scowls, but a faint flush climbs up his pale neck over the high collar of his robes.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Tselai-daihe!¡± Ranan blurts. He can¡¯t quite make full eye contact with his creed brother, but he¡¯s at least staring in the vicinity of his face. ¡°I really wasn¡¯t looking through your mail. I promise. I just¡ªI knocked it off the dresser by accident and it went everywhere and I was trying to pick it all up before you got back from the baths but then you walked in and saw me¡­¡± He takes a breath. ¡°And I¡¯m¡­ sorry about saying bad stuff about your uncle.¡±


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    ¡°Elder lord cousin,¡± Tselai corrects him snippily, but then he bites the inside of his cheek and sighs irritably. ¡°If that¡¯s the case, then I¡­ apologize for assuming the worst. My¡ªthat letter is important to me. I¡­¡± he hesitates for a long time before finishing his sentence in a grumbling rush, ¡°should have known better than to accuse you. You¡¯ve never snooped in my things before.¡±


    There is a long, deeply awkward silence following this exchange during which the two junior disciples look everywhere but at each other, both of their faces stained with embarrassment.


    ¡°There!¡± Sahan says exasperatedly. ¡°Was that so hard? Fell Empress preserve me.¡± She claps both youths on the shoulder and steers them towards Ambren. ¡°Apologize to your adaihe for not listening to him.¡±


    This round of apologies goes much more smoothly, and Ambren can¡¯t help but laugh. ¡°This adaihe is only glad to see the two of you unharmed. Please be more careful in the future.¡±


    With things at least temporarily patched up, Sahan¡¯s irritation dissipates quickly, and she pats both junior disciples fondly on the head. Ranan endures this with a bashful smile; Tselai humphs but doesn¡¯t pull away.


    ¡°Ah, don¡¯t be so stuffy, Tseba,¡± Sahan cajoles. ¡°How can I resist? You¡¯re so cute.¡± She pinches one pale-skinned cheek.


    Ranan¡¯s face contorts with the effort of containing his laugh.


    Tselai¡¯s expression, meanwhile, is absolutely thunderous. ¡°Sahan¡­!¡± he chokes out.


    ¡°Tselai¡± was a proud name passed down over generations of northern lords. ¡°Tseba¡± was a jam-filled sweet bun. It was also Sahan¡¯s preferred nickname for this disciple, and there was nothing he could do about it.


    Once everyone calms down, Sahan gathers her little ducklings together in the Queen¡¯s Garden¡¯s sole gazebo. It¡¯s overgrown with flowering vines and the wooden floor is a bit rotted, but it¡¯s still a lovely place to enjoy the mild spring weather. Sahan leans against a railing while her disciples lounge across the benches (Ranan and Tselai are studiously pretending not to notice each other, which is¡­ sort of an improvement).


    ¡°So,¡± Sahan begins, crossing her arms over her chest, her tired but genuine smile slipping away. ¡°The Grand Matron gave me some news last night. I¡¯m going to share it with you, but let me make this very clear: everything I¡¯m about to say stays between us until the Grand Matron makes a public announcement.¡±


    She stares hard at each disciple in turn (especially Ranan, who fidgets uncomfortably with the cream-colored sash on his outer robe). Evidently satisfied that her point has been made, Sahan continues. ¡°Let¡¯s see if any of you have been listening in the High Priestess¡¯s divinities lessons. Do you know what Rites of Devotion are?¡±


    Ambren knows the answer, but the question is really for his younger brothers. He keeps his mouth shut until Tselai lifts his chin and says, ¡°They¡¯re part of a tithing ceremony.¡±


    ¡°Mm,¡± Sahan acknowledges. ¡°What sort of tithe?¡±


    Ranan puffs up, breaking his temporary truce to glare daggers at Tselai. ¡°Any kind,¡± he interjects, ¡°but usually a blood tithe because they¡¯re fast and easy to offer and you don¡¯t need a priest to perform them.¡±


    ¡°Very good, both of you!¡± Sahan says. ¡°Now, what¡¯s special about this kind of tithing ceremony in particular?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s witnessed by the god you¡¯re tithing to!¡± Tselai blurts out before Ranan can answer. ¡°Usually people tithe to a priest and then the priest offers the power of the tithe back to their god, but during a Rites of Devotion ceremony the god accepts the tithe directly!¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s the benefit of that?¡±


    ¡°A stronger tithing bond!¡± the junior disciples answer in hurried unison.


    Ambren coughs lightly to disguise his laugh.


    Sahan smiles too, her dimples appearing for just a moment before her expression dampens again. ¡°Exactly right. A stronger tithing bond makes it easier for a god to command their subjects, doesn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°But it also gives devotees a direct connection to their god,¡± Ranan adds. ¡°So they can pray straight to their god and stuff and even get divine power from the source instead of through a priest.¡±


    At this, Sahan raises a finger and wipes away a phantom tear. ¡°Oh my god. You guys actually do listen.¡±


    Ranan unfurls like a bloom after a gentle rain, his tan skin rosy under this faint but earnest praise. Tselai is less visibly pleased, but his usual sourpuss expression has been replaced by a vague half-smile.


    Finally, Sahan turns to Ambren. ¡°Alright, Adaihe. Bring it home. Why do you think I¡¯m asking you guys about Rites of Devotion?¡±


    Ambren thinks for a moment. ¡°Well¡­¡± he begins slowly, ¡°it¡¯s been five years since God-Queen Velnyr ascended. She hasn¡¯t held a public Rites of Devotion ceremony yet, but¡­ Now that the realm is starting to stabilize, travel is safer, food is cheaper and more plentiful, and the lords are able to securely leave their seats of power. Could it be that Her Worship has decided it¡¯s time to host her first proper tithing ceremony?¡±


    Sahan claps her hands. ¡°Daiheza! Wonderful!¡±


    It takes the junior disciples a moment to connect the dots, but Tselai is the first to figure it out. He bolts upright on the bench, his long, pale blond ponytail flopping over his shoulder with the force of his movements.


    ¡°Are we going?!¡± he asks breathlessly.


    Sahan grins in response, but something about it feels¡­ off. His younger brothers don¡¯t seem to notice, but Ambren does. He¡¯s well-practiced in hiding his emotions, however, and his expression remains smooth and placid.


    ¡°We¡¯re going,¡± she confirms. ¡°All three of you were invited by name. Congratulations.¡±


    There¡¯s a few seconds of stunned silence before Ranan leaps to his feet and whoops, eyes sparkling. Ambren shushes him to no avail.


    ¡°Really?!¡± he asks. ¡°We¡¯re really¡ªgoing to the royal capital? We¡¯re really gonna see the queen???¡±


    ¡°Really really,¡± Sahan says. ¡°The ceremony is set to start the week of the spring solstice, so¡­ three weeks from now?¡±


    The sudden burst of chatter is loud and incomprehensible. Sahan just shakes her head and chuckles, waiting until the excitement dies down. Ranan, unable to contain himself, vaults the railing and runs several laps around the gazebo, hooting gleefully the entire time, high auburn ponytail flapping in the breeze. Tselai is more restrained, but he still shoots up and vibrates in place, hands fisted eagerly in his robes. Ambren, as usual, is the mellowest of all, but even he breaks into an unrestrained peal of genuine laughter.


    ¡°This is the coolest shit ever!¡±


    ¡°Ah, I need to write Lord Etrezo at once¡ª¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re gonna travel across the whole kingdom¨C¡±


    ¡°Hah! Rametam will be sick with jealousy; I can¡¯t wait to see his face¡ª¡±


    ¡°Are we gonna see the queen¡¯s dragon? Sahan, are we gonna see the dragon??? What¡¯s her name again¡­ Adaihe, what¡¯s the dragon¡¯s name?¡±


    ¡°Harasi. The Queen¡¯s Fury.¡±


    ¡°Fuck yeah, that¡¯s cool as hell.¡±


    ¡°I have to send for my diadem! Will it get here in time, do you think, if I ask my cousin for it now?¡±


    Sahan rubs her temples, lost in thought. Ambren sidles up to her while the other two talk to themselves.


    ¡°Is Sahan well?¡± he asks quietly.


    Sahan glances at him. ¡°I¡¯m fine, Daihe. Thank you. And thank you for leaving dinner last night.¡±


    Ambren tips his head. ¡°This disciple was happy to help. He assumed Sahan would be tired after her long day.¡±


    Sahan sighs. ¡°You have no idea.¡±


    After several long minutes, the junior disciples finally calm down enough to listen to the rest of Sahan¡¯s speech.


    ¡°The Grand Matron will give us all the finicky details later,¡± she says, ¡°but until then, remember: not a word to anyone about any of this. I¡¯m serious.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Sahan,¡± the disciples chorus.


    ***


    They spend the rest of the day as usual, practicing basic channeling and purification techniques with Ari until lunch. It¡¯s no use teaching anything more strenuous¡ªthe boys are all too antsy. They split up when the belltower tolls for lunch. It¡¯s the last Ari will see of them for the day; the rest of their lessons will be in other subjects with the rest of the acolytes of their skill level. She sometimes convenes with them for evening lessons as well, but today she lets them off easy: they deserve the chance to celebrate the good news.


    She¡¯s¡­ a little worried that the boys will be too obviously excited, but as long as they don¡¯t blab any specifics the Grand Matron won¡¯t get on her ass about it. Ostensibly, she has work of her own to do, but she instead spends much of her afternoon in meditation, working to purge her mind of the string of nightmares that plagued her all night. Unfortunately, it does little to ward off the waves of nightmares that follow her the rest of the week.


    True to her word, the Grand Matron gathers the invitees together the next day to make her official announcement. It¡¯s clear from the expressions on every disciple¡¯s face that this is news to exactly none of them, but thankfully word doesn¡¯t seem to have spread past the assembled group.


    It will take two full weeks to travel from Kachai Fortress to Tsimeda. With all of Kachai Coven¡¯s matrons and two of its preceptors headed south for so long, the Grand Matron has established strict protocols for the remaining preceptors to follow in her absence. For the attendees, the next week will be spent packing and preparing. They¡¯ll follow the royal highway from Vaomeze all the way to the capital, traveling in a convoy of carriages and mounted riders. The invitation included a list of inns and relay stations along the way that they might take advantage of if they wish. The royal highway will doubtless be heavily-trafficked, though. They might have to rough it some nights.


    Ari¡¯s never been to the new royal capital personally, but she¡¯s familiar with the God-Queen¡¯s modus operandi. The celebration will last a full week, and the entire city will be dressed to impress in classic Elvish fashion. There will be duels, various martial games and arcane mastery competitions, parades, dances, feasts, public offerings¡ªin other words, a lot of culture shock to prepare her poor little ducklings for. Only Ambren is familiar with the grandiosity of Elvish tithing ceremony celebrations, so she relies on him to help teach the juniors the basics of Elvish customs and etiquette.


    The week passes in a blur. Ari frankly gives up on teaching properly and instead devotes her time to dancing lessons and Elvish vocabulary practice. It isn¡¯t just the excitement in the air that turns time into a slurry¡ªAri hasn¡¯t slept this poorly in a very long time. Every morning, she spends several minutes coated in cold sweat, hugging Varul as close as she can without crushing the poor beast¡¯s lungs. Once, she even startles awake in the middle of the night to find her spiritual weapon hissing and smoking in her bed: Varul, responding to her terror, had reverted to her bladed form to protect her.


    But finally, the week passes, and the representatives from Kachai Coven set out from the fortress to begin their long journey south.

 4: The Journey South (Part I)

    Chapter 4: The Journey South (Part I)


    The Time: Present day, 720 A.E.


    The Place: The kingdom of Saimr


    The night before the convoy is set to depart, a lone figure crosses the grounds. They walk slowly, but not aimlessly¡ªevery step is crisp and purposeful, not a single movement wasted. The moon is high and the sky is clear. The air is alive with the sounds of the woodland nightlife outside the walls.


    It¡¯s very late. Almost every candlelight in almost every window is extinguished. Only the evening patrols disturb the stillness, making their quiet rounds.


    ¡°Matron,¡± they murmur when the figure passes them by, but they receive no acknowledgement. They don¡¯t seem to expect it. They don¡¯t seem surprised by the encounter, either.


    The figure crosses the bridge spanning the western towers. They slip through the pavilion that Nila ate pastries in not so long ago. They descend the stairway. And finally they approach the Queen¡¯s Garden, the click of their boots on the cobblestones echoing in the enclosed courtyard.


    Before, the figure strode forward relentlessly, but now their gait becomes leisurely, almost meditative. They stop frequently to examine some shrubbery or flowerbed or decorative statue, arms clasped sedately behind their back. Sometimes they linger for only a moment. Sometimes for several.


    There are still clumps of dried weeds glued to the edges of the cobblestone that the sole keepers of this garden have yet to clear. They¡¯re quite recent¡ªPreceptor Ari had kept her promise to punish her junior disciples for fighting with another long shift in the garden. The figure stops before one especially large clump and almost thoughtlessly toes it with the elegant tip of one dark boot. The clump shudders and then begins to wither. Within seconds, it¡¯s nothing more than dust. Evidently satisfied, the figure continues their stroll.


    No one is here to watch, but if anyone just so happened to look very closely, they¡¯d notice the way the flowers dance when the figure passes, the way the boughs of shrubs and trees stretch hungrily towards them, leaves rattling. They¡¯d see the empty sockets of the carved stone idols wink with pale, eerie light. They¡¯d see wilting blooms on the brink of yellowing suddenly perk right up; they¡¯d see scuttling pests and parasites shrivel and burn.


    The garden doesn¡¯t look enormously different afterwards. The improvements are subtle, easily missed.


    When the figure reaches the bench and the dragon-head fountain, they stop for a moment, folding the starchy lines of their cloak neatly around them as they sit. Their posture is straight-backed and elegant¡ªtheir body may be at rest, but their mind is perfectly alert. They remain here for quite some time, silent and unmoving.


    Partway through this strange ritual, they reach into the recesses of that aggressively unwrinkled cloak and withdraw what looks like a necklace. Strung through a delicate golden chain is a symbol that any witch would recognize¡ªa very finely-made talisman of the Fell Empress as the First Dragon. Or, it was likely finely-made at one point. One of the dragon¡¯s black wings appears to have been partially melted, and the chain is obviously newer than the charm.


    The figure¡¯s gloved fingers stroke the outlines of the charm over and over, tirelessly, tenderly, obsessively. Fingertips ghosting across a lover¡¯s sleeping face. And then, all at once, those fingers clench tight and furious over the talisman¡¯s battered surface. The fingertips brushing their beloved¡¯s dewy cheeks now clutch that person¡¯s delicate throat. The metal creaks and groans but does not bend¡ªwhich speaks well of the strength of its craftsmanship, for this grasp could easily crush bone.


    After many long minutes, those powerful fingers relax. The necklace disappears back into the cloak, and the figure stands, detached and unconcerned. They leave as sedately as they entered, and had anyone been scrutinizing their expression they¡¯d have found nothing within it but icy indifference.


    The garden falls still and silent again in their absence.


    ***


    It¡¯s a cool, misty morning when the convoy sets out from Kachai Fortress. Though the city of Vaomeze isn¡¯t far away, there¡¯s a strip of pristine woodland separating the provincial capital from the fortress. As such, the stretch of dirt road that winds south from the fortress¡¯s gates is quiet, empty, and enclosed by towering green walls of firs, pines, and spruces on either side. The only sounds come from the chorale of songbirds, the chittering of diurnal insects, the rumbling of carriage wheels, and the snorts and yips and growls of the barghests conveying riders in sturdy travelling gear.


    The Grand Matron rides in the front of this procession and Ari¡ªwith Varul strapped to her hip, transformed into an unassuming dagger of dull bronze¡ªvolunteers to bring up the rear, sandwiching the convoy between two of its strongest warcasters. It¡¯s extraordinarily unlikely they¡¯ll run into real trouble on the road, but unlikely is not impossible. The disciples ride in the middle of the line, with the youngest and least accomplished in the very center.


    Still, despite their cautious formation, it¡¯s obvious the members of this convoy are quite relaxed. Riders trot shoulder-to-shoulder, chatting amiably with their creed relatives. Within the dignified passenger carriages, the matrons are free to read, smoke, sip tea, nibble perishable snacks, and meditate. Five of the six matrons partake.


    The convoy consists of a little over thirty souls. Aside from the invitees, the extra bodies are mostly members of the La?ar¡ªthe coven¡¯s trained sentinels. Only these well-trained guards remain totally alert. Several of them scout ahead in pairs.


    It¡¯s a bit lonely at the back of this train, but with a week of sleep deprivation and anxiety dragging her down, Ari for once doesn¡¯t mind the solitude. Besides, it could be worse! La?ar Commander Enahi is no doubt lurking around somewhere, but she hasn¡¯t bothered Ari yet. That¡¯s a win no matter how you count it.


    Still, she can¡¯t help but glance back as the fortress slowly grows smaller and less distinct behind them, a stony gray splotch against the looming peaks of the Alatali Mountains. Soon she can¡¯t even make out the coven¡¯s insignia on the navy banners hanging from the walls, or the dragon-claw gouges left behind on the roofs by Syuasi years ago. Ari hasn¡¯t left Kachai Fortress for longer than a few days since she wandered here after her rebirth. She feels as unsettled as a child lost at the market.


    It¡¯s a ridiculous feeling, but knowing that doesn¡¯t loosen its hold on her.


    At least focusing on the simple pleasure of riding lifts her mood. The barghest beneath her is one of her favorites¡ªshe¡¯s a tall, energetic yearling named Techa (the Saimerian word for pumpkin). Her short coat shines the color of roasted chestnuts in the gentle morning sunlight, and her massive head with its heavy, powerful jaws turns this way and that as they move, lively and inquisitive. Her short ears remain pricked; her dark tongue lolls from an open mouth studded with teeth as long and thick as Ari¡¯s fingers.


    Barghests make excellent mounts, and almost every coven utilizes them. Mundane animals shy from witches almost without exception, but barghests are lesser demons: clever, sociable, resilient, obedient when trained from birth, swift on their feet, fierce in battle, and easy to feed¡ªthey primarily subsist upon ambient anima and only occasionally need to hunt. Once summoned from the Eight Heavens, they can reside comfortably in the material plane for the rest of their lives, even to the point of mating and bearing native-born offspring.


    Really, of the so-called Five Sisters (Saimr¡¯s five top covens), only the Meye Veless Coven of Tsimeda prefers mounts of a different sort. Of course, that¡¯s because Meye Veless is primarily composed of Deep Elves like the queen, and most of their witches and priests are pilgrims from Leviathan¡¯s Gossamer Church. And true to its name, the Gossamer Church reveres spiders above all else.


    In two weeks, Ari is going to have to enter a city filled to the brim with giant spiders. If her disciples ever cause her grief again, she¡¯s going to remind them of this until the day they die.


    The convoy slowly but steadily trundles its way through the tunnel of peaceful conifers until the worn dirt road opens out onto the royal highway proper¡ªwhich is wide enough for three carriages to ride abreast, paved with rugged stone, and flanked by drainage ditches on either side. With the tree cover thinning, it¡¯s also possible to make out the walled city of Vaomeze a short ride to the east. The convoy continues south, of course. As morning marches towards noon, they encounter a handful of other travelers, mostly merchants or farmers who steer well clear of their convoy.


    By the end of hour two, Ari¡¯s peace with her own isolation has begun to falter. She¡¯s a chatterbox at heart; rugged solitude just isn¡¯t for her. She could break formation, but the only other Preceptor on this journey rides far ahead of her on purpose and the Matrons are boxed up in their carriages, closed off from the outside world. That just leaves the disciples¡ªbut what kind of sad weirdo imposes herself on a bunch of teenagers?


    Ari sighs. With little else to do besides keeping an eye and ear out for trouble, she at last decides to people-watch the procession of youths in front of her, who are certainly more energetic than she feels. Even the burgeoning noon heat can¡¯t dampen their excitement.


    In this arrangement, her ducklings are on the very outskirts of the central huddle with the rest of the older crop of disciples. It takes her only a moment to pick them out of the crowd: there¡¯s Ambren, riding an old, gentle, white-furred bitch named Gugua (Snowmelt). He¡¯s perhaps the least comfortable on a mount, so Gugua¡¯s subdued nature suits him. Still, he looks at ease, chatting politely with the clique of hangers-on encircling him. Though Ambren technically lacks a clan name or any outstanding reputation, his looks, personality, and elven mystique have made him quite popular anyway. Though a good number of young girls subtly compete to steal the spot closest to him, the person that¡¯s actually glued to his side, chin raised imperiously, is Tselai.


    Unlike the other disciples, Tselai wears an embroidered traveling cloak of fine make, and he rides like he was born in the saddle. His long, flaxen-blond ponytail is nearly blinding in the morning sun¡ªto say nothing of the expensive-looking hair ornament holding it in place. Ari shakes her head in fond exasperation. She gives it three days before he¡¯s so sick of being on the road that he doesn¡¯t bother dressing up anymore. He doesn¡¯t converse as freely with his creedmates, but even so the crowd of leeches clinging to him is even larger than Ambren¡¯s.


    She has to search a bit harder for Ranan, but when she finally spots him, her heart squeezes.


    He¡¯s all by himself.


    At first, his expression is bright and animated as he tries to keep pace with the crowd, leaning eagerly forward in his saddle to catch the wisps of conversation drifting back his way. But every time he tries to participate, he¡¯s ignored entirely. No one looks back at him. No one offers him a trail snack or invites him to play any of their stupid travel games. He keeps trying, though, offering up little jokes and earnest questions until one of the bolder disciples, a girl riding directly in front of him, finally rolls her eyes and snaps, ¡°I don¡¯t know if you¡¯re stubborn or just stupid, but will you please shut up? You¡¯ve been bothering us non-stop since we left. It¡¯s really annoying.¡±


    Ranan doesn¡¯t say anything, but his smile immediately drops. All of the pent-up elation in his posture drains away. A moment later, his barghest slows¡ªand, heedless of the anguish they¡¯ve just inflicted, the group ahead of him trots away. The distance between them is short, but it might as well be uncountable miles. Ranan gazes after that group for a long time. Then he lowers his head and stares resolutely at the ground, shoulders drawn up tight.


    Ari¡¯s heart breaks into a hundred tiny pieces. Her poor Ranan-?a! That boisterous little pup might complain endlessly about nonsense problems that don¡¯t matter, but the things that really bother him, he endures in placid silence.


    She can¡¯t help but be reminded of the scrawny kid a recruiting patrol brought back from the streets of Vaomeze two years ago¡ªmalnourished, filthy, bruised, and yet somehow still smiling, somehow still unbroken. And yet for all his hard work and all his skill, he hasn¡¯t found his place here. This is his only home in all the world, these people his only family, and yet nearly every time she sees him he¡¯s alone.


    It¡¯s achingly familiar. She loves all of her disciples deeply, but it¡¯s within Ranan that she sees herself reflected.


    Before she can think better of it, she whistles, short and sharp. ¡°Ranan-daihe!¡±


    The youth jerks upright and twists around in his saddle, blinking rapidly. There might be a bit of moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes, and his cheeks might be suspiciously red, but Ari pretends not to notice. Everyone needs their pride.


    ¡°Come ride with me!¡± she calls lightly. ¡°I¡¯m bored. It¡¯s so dull back here, I¡¯m half-hoping we do get ambushed.¡±


    Ranan surreptitiously wipes his eyes, but by the time his barghest¡ªa short, stocky blonde beast called Hama¡ªbounds over to her, some of the pep is back in his smile. Ah, this kid. He can weather a hundred blows that leave him bruised and bleeding without faltering, but he has no defenses against a single kind word. He really does resemble nothing more than a stray puppy that¡¯s too foolish to learn how to hate and fear and mistrust.


    With a grin, Ari reaches out and ruffles his hair. If there¡¯s anything she can do to preserve that sweet, dumb heart, she¡¯ll pursue it to the ends of the earth.


    Totally unaware of the direction of her thoughts, Ranan beams, ducking his head shyly but refusing to pull away. Indeed, he unconsciously follows her hand as she withdraws it¡ªAri thinks morosely that if given a choice between a hot meal and a gentle touch, Ranan would starve himself to death before he ever turned away a scrap of affection.


    ¡°Did you need something, Sahan?¡± he asks, as though he thinks the only reason his master would bother to summon him is to ask him to fetch something.


    ¡°Just some company,¡± Ari says cheerfully.


    ¡°Oh.¡± Ranan looks down again, this time with a pleased flush. ¡°Um, where¡¯s Baza?¡±


    Ahhh, adorable!


    Ari reaches down and tips the hilt strapped to her waist. ¡°Resting. She might like to run around free for a bit, but with so many barghests around I¡¯m worried one of them might bother her. They¡¯ve got a strong prey drive, you know.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh,¡± Ranan replies tactfully.


    It¡¯s well-known that while Preceptor Ari is one of Kachai Coven¡¯s strongest Preceptors, her spiritual weapon is almost shockingly weak. It¡¯s a baffling shame, but what can anyone do?


    Looking for a way to casually redirect the conversation, Ari asks: ¡°Have you done much traveling before?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡± Ranan shrugs. ¡°Couldn¡¯t. No money, and no reason. There¡¯s not another city like Vaomeze around for miles and miles. I might¡¯ve had better luck begging somewhere with less competition, but there would¡¯ve been a lot less people with coin to spare in some farming village too.¡±


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    Ari hums. ¡°True. But most people in little places like that, they trade food and board for work. You could¡¯ve been a laborer.¡±


    Ranan draws up indignantly, but he doesn¡¯t look genuinely upset. ¡°I was a laborer! There¡¯s all sorts of jobs that need doing in a city. I couldn¡¯t do them when I was really little, but once I got older there were a lot of people willing to hire some dumb street rat for a day as long as he was strong and didn¡¯t talk back.¡±


    ¡°And you didn¡¯t talk back?¡± Ari asks skeptically.


    Ranan¡¯s miffed expression turns sheepish. ¡°Well¡­ sometimes I got kicked off a job before they paid me¡­ But they were always assholes, so it wasn¡¯t worth it to just stand there and take it!¡±


    Ari has no doubt about this¡ªshe¡¯d experienced herself when she first ran away from home. She¡¯d never been a street rat before that, but she¡¯d certainly been dumb.


    Ranan scoffs and keeps talking. It¡¯s gratifying to hear him¡ªaround anyone else, even Ambren (and especially Tselai), he refuses to say a peep about his past. Maybe it¡¯s too painful, or maybe he¡¯s ashamed, though he has no reason to be; either way, Ari seems to be the only person he lets his guard down around enough to reminisce like this.


    ¡°Sometimes I had to suck it up though,¡± he admits. ¡°I didn¡¯t mind if it was just me going hungry for a night, but¡­ there were a lot of people I knew who couldn¡¯t work at all. I tried to help them when I could.¡±


    Ari keeps her expression neutral, but her gooey heart keens. What a good kid.


    She tells him so, and he sputters, his face instantly turning red as a radish. ¡°That¡¯s¡ªSahan is too kind; this worthless disciple was just being prag¡­ Prack¡­ Pra¡­¡±


    ¡°Prag¡­¡± Ari begins, then pauses, realizing she actually doesn¡¯t know the word either. ¡°Practical!¡± she finishes triumphantly.


    ¡°Yeah!¡± Ranan agrees. ¡°That! We all had to take care of each other. Sure, some people were bitches who¡¯d sooner slit your throat than share a cup of broth, but most of us weren¡¯t like that. It was easier to stay alive if you had other people to rely on when you weren¡¯t strong enough to do it all yourself.¡±


    Ari smiles down at him. The early days of the war had been just like that. Back then, when she was a kid herself, there were no covens to turn to if the Feversong took you, no outposts with medics and soulshapers who might set you back to rights. The witches who survived had to stick together, because gods knew not a sorry one of them had anything else to cling to. Anyone who was born outside of the Dawn¡¯s territory was on their own.


    ¡°Well,¡± Ari says finally, ¡°since you haven¡¯t done much traveling before, you¡¯ll have to tell me how you like it.¡±


    ¡°Has Sahan done much traveling before?¡± Ranan wonders.


    Ari pauses for a moment. She has to do this sometimes, calibrate how much of the truth she can spare. This bit probably isn¡¯t dangerous, though. Ranan already knows she was part of the Dawn. She can bullshit a little about which part.


    ¡°Sure.¡± She reaches down, grabs her canteen, and takes a swig. The heat doesn¡¯t bother her anymore¡ªshe barely sweats these days¡ªbut she still needs water to function. ¡°During the war, we traveled a lot. We didn¡¯t have many keeps or permanent garrisons back then, and once we went on the march we didn¡¯t stop.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Ranan¡¯s eyes are big, like they always get when she talks about the war. He was certainly old enough to remember the end of it, but he¡¯d been too young to fight, thank the Sun. Vaomeze had been hit hard by the famine and the Feversong, but it had avoided being occupied or besieged.


    Ari considers her story for a moment, then mentally shrugs and tosses away another layer of obfuscation. ¡°And I traveled some with my sahan when I was your age.¡±


    Ranan lights up like a hundred candles. Ari has mentioned her own master only a handful of times to anyone save the Grand Matron, and never in any detail. Like he¡¯s approaching a wild animal he¡¯s afraid to spook, he casually says, ¡°Oh, really?¡±


    Ari almost cracks at his extremely feigned indifference, but she manages to keep her composure and walk into his ¡°trap¡±.


    ¡°Mmhmm. She was a¡­ wandering scholar, sort of. Among other things. Mostly she took care of jobs for the Dawn, though, and we stayed in the north and northwest since it was safest. We even crossed the Gate of Judgment into Yevala once.¡±


    Ranan can no longer contain himself. ¡°Really?! Were there, like, walking corpses everywhere?!?!¡±


    Ari throws back her head and laughs. Saimr¡¯s neighbor Yevala is separated from them by the Western Alatali Mountains and largely impassable by land¡ªboth thanks to its natural defenses and its restrictive governance. Very few foreigners are admitted into the country and very few emigrants are permitted to leave. The Gate of Judgment is the primary avenue of land-based passage into the country.


    But Yevala¡¯s strongest claim to fame is its worship of the Deadly Triad, the traditional pantheon¡¯s three gods of death. Or, that had been the case once. Now, the instruments of Yevala¡¯s faith have been turned in another direction: to worship the Sun Eternal. But true to form, the art most sacred to the Yeveli witches is necromancy.


    ¡°There were some walking corpses,¡± she tells Ranan, eyes twinkling. ¡°Just near the Amaressian Priory, though. You could find them in the markets, there, running errands.¡±


    Ranan looks suitably dazzled. ¡°That¡¯s so cool.¡±


    ¡°It was pretty cool. But the Priory was pretty gross when we toured it.¡± She wrinkles her nose. ¡°The main halls were all made out of bones.¡±


    Predictably, this sends Ranan into a tizzy. ¡°Ahh! Badass! I wanna be a necromancer!¡±


    While he rants and raves, Ari shakes her head minutely. If he had the aptitude and the desire, and circumstances were different, she could teach him. Necromancy¨Cthe Pale Flame¡ªis one of the three Exalted Arts she¡¯s mastered. But it¡¯s too risky. Of the eight Exalted Arts, three are far rarer than the others: the Ascendant Flame, the Devouring Flame, and the Pale Flame. Of these, Ari has mastered two: the Pale Flame, and the Ascendant Flame. (The other, she has not a lick of talent for.)


    Her control of the Ascendant Flame is why she was hallowed as Saint Batira. It¡¯s an art only a handful of people in the world have developed. In comparison, necromancy is a much more common field¡ªthe most common of the three, in fact¡ªbut it¡¯s still abnormal enough to garner attention in Saimr. Attention is the last thing she needs.


    Foreseeably, Ranan turns those big, determined blue eyes on her. ¡°Sahan, do you know any necromancy?¡±


    ¡°Nah.¡±


    Ranan deflates, but only for a second. ¡°Okay. You can just teach me the Bloodflame, I guess.¡±


    This is Ari¡¯s third mastered art, and the only one she¡¯s acknowledged publicly. She¡¯s rated in the middle Third Echelon for the Ravaging Flame and the upper Third Echelon for the Beguiling Flame as well, which she doesn¡¯t hide. Aptitude in three arts, never mind mastery of one, is still a rare feat. It puts her on par with Kachai¡¯s most experienced Matrons.


    (Technically, she has some aptitude for the Cleansing Flame, but honestly she¡¯s so bad at it that it¡¯s actually more embarrassing to admit she¡¯s rated in the first ring than to pretend she has no skill for it at all.)


    When it comes to assessing a spellcaster, whether mage or witch, the mage sects of Imtheria, the Red Citadel, and the covens use the same strategy: a spell called the Twelve Rings of Qanathar. It¡¯s not a precise measuring tool¡ªnor is it meant to be¡ªbut it¡¯s an excellent benchmark for an arcanist¡¯s raw talent. The spell¡¯s function is simple: the candidate being tested steps into the center of a circle divided into twelve concentric rings and attempts to ¡°fill¡± each ring with their magic. Filling one ring and unlocking the next requires stabilizing and shaping one¡¯s numina (magic cultivated and refined through the soul), and each ring becomes exponentially more difficult to access as the amount of magic and the amount of control needed to wield it grows.


    These twelve rings are then further divided into four Echelons: arcanists who rate in the first, second, or third ring are placed into the First Echelon; arcanists who rate in the fourth, fifth, or sixth ring are placed into the Second Echelon; and so forth. Most human arcanists are First Echelon casters. Only a relatively small number ever reach the Second Echelon, and only archmages generally obtain the Third Echelon. The bar is much higher in Imtheria, where Sahan once informed her that an elven mage isn¡¯t even considered eligible to become an archmage until they reach the upper Third or lower Fourth Echelons. The Fourth Echelon is largely the domain of gods and their direct offspring.


    There is, Ari has heard, a mythical ¡°Fifth Echelon¡± as well. This is the exclusive territory of only a tiny handful of powerful deities, like Khadrim Korga of Qur Saghal or Imperator Ruloryn of Imtheria.


    If Sahan hasn¡¯t yet obtained the Fifth Echelon after her ascension, Ari thinks dryly, it surely won¡¯t take her much longer.


    It¡¯s as she¡¯s turning the idea over in her mind that a small commotion behind them draws her attention. She glances over her shoulder to see two mounted figures moving towards the convoy at a swift but not frantic pace. La?ar scouts returning, no doubt.


    Or¡ªno. Is that¡­?


    It is. Oh no. Ari recognizes that barghest and she recognizes that stupid fucking cape.


    In a flash, she steers Techa to the outside of the road and forces Ranan and Hama to her left, away from the two rapidly-approaching riders. Just in time, too: there¡¯s plenty of room on the road, but as the larger barghest nears, it veers so close to Techa that the hem of its rider¡¯s dumb ugly fur-collared cape brushes Ari¡¯s thighs. This barghest is the biggest of any in the stables, dark as bistre and mean as a snake dipped in acid, and he only allows one person to ride him.


    He whacks into Techa¡¯s shoulder with some force, nearly sending the smaller beast careening¡ªand nearly sending Ari tumbling from her back. His teeth flash and snap the air after, an eerie cackle bubbling from his throat.


    ¡°Sahan!¡± Ranan cries.


    Techa snarls furiously, but Ari manages to keep her from taking off after the big bastard and his rider¡ªwho, by the way, doesn¡¯t spare Ari enough attention to even gloat.


    ¡°Bitch!!!¡± Ari spits after her. Of course there¡¯s no response; the riders are already gone.


    ¡°Is Sahan okay?!¡± Ranan asks. ¡°Who was that?!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Ari grouses. ¡°That was the La?ar Commander.¡±


    It¡¯s no surprise Ranan doesn¡¯t recognize her immediately; Matron Enahi is frequently away on assignments, and even when she¡¯s in residence at the fortress she¡¯s an anal-retentive loner with a bad attitude. She doesn¡¯t like anyone, but the second she clapped eyes on Ari for the first time she was imbued with some sort of divinely-ordained hatred. Every time she gets a whiff of Ari she¡¯s like a shark tasting blood in the water.


    Ari isn¡¯t sure exactly what crawled up her ass, but she¡¯s one of those rich-powerful-beautiful noble heiresses who thinks everyone in the world exists to kiss the soles of their boots. This is a variety of person Ari is used to dealing with (another valuable lesson from her sahan), and from a much greater disadvantage as well. Matron Enahi might be a bully, but she and Ari are creed sisters from the same generation and the same Echelon. Ari simply had to endure Velnyr-sahan¡¯s innate irascibility; she can push back against Matron Enahi.


    Still.


    ¡°What an ass!¡± Ranan declares.


    Ari, who would ordinarily caution him against speaking ill of his elders¡ªespecially such a dangerous one¡ªsnaps, ¡°Yeah, she fucking is!¡±


    ***


    The rest of the day¡¯s trip is uneventful. Ari and Ranan play a few rounds of ¡°I spy¡± and split some of their trail rations. Eventually, as afternoon begins its slow turn to evening, Ambren and Tselai drop back to join them.


    ¡°What have you been doing back here, bothering Sahan all day?¡± Tselai asks Ranan suspiciously.


    Ranan puffs up like a bullfrog. ¡°Sahan asked me to keep her company!¡±


    Tselai snorts disbelievingly. ¡°As if anyone could tolerate riding next to you for eight hours.¡±


    These two exchange petty verbal blows all the time, but Ari sees this one strikes home. Ranan¡¯s face darkens.


    Oh boy. Sometimes she can just let them fight it out, but not right now.


    ¡°Daiheza!¡± she snaps. Tselai and Ranan both immediately whip around to ignore each other.


    She sighs. ¡°I¡¯m happy for any of you to ride with me.¡±


    Tselai looks like he¡¯s about to say something, but before his lips even form the first syllable Ari whacks him upside the head so hard she knocks his ponytail over his shoulder. He shoots her a very betrayed look that he quickly retracts once he gets a clear look at her face.


    ¡°Fucking stop it.¡±


    Ranan snorts. She whacks him upside the head too.


    She¡¯s so engrossed in keeping those two idiots from squabbling that she doesn¡¯t notice the dark shape circling the back of the procession like a stalking predator until it¡¯s too late.


    ¡°What an inspiring display from Preceptor Gazdani¡¯s dear disciples. Perhaps the learned master can share her insights on raising such fine apprentices with this venerable lord.¡±


    The speaker¡¯s voice is soft and refined and deadly like a knife tucked away in a sleeve. As soon as they hear it, the three disciples twist around in blatant shock. They felt not so much as a stirring in the aether from this person¡¯s aura.


    Matron Enahi is a master of the Exalted Art of the Holy Shadow. If she doesn¡¯t want to be noticed, she won¡¯t be. Even Ari, who has the benefit of a very¡­ keen sense of spiritual energies and the tides of the aether, has to pay close attention if she wants to find Enahi when she doesn¡¯t intend to be found.


    Techa growls low in her throat.


    As Enahi and her huge dark beast, Qovar, draw even with Ari¡¯s group, Ari gets a better look at her creed sister. Like Tselai, she¡¯s dressed more finely than anyone spending such long days on the road really ought to. Somehow, though, there¡¯s not a speck of dust on her dark blue coat. Her ink-black hair falls freely in gentle waves down her back; her skin is pale as milk but smooth in the way only money and good fortune can buy. The visible parts of her face are sharp and lovely, but her eyes are hidden¡ªpractitioners of the Art of the Holy Shadow often cover their eyes symbolically, and Matron Enahi¡¯s mask is little more than an ornate silver band that completely covers her eyes (though it does nothing to actually impede her vision).


    ¡°Enahi-girhe.¡± Ari greets her with saccharine sweetness. ¡°It¡¯s such an honor! This lowly one thought you¡¯d have more important things to do than gift us with your presence¡ªlike kicking orphans or eating kittens.¡±


    While Enahi technically outranks her, Ari is older. By right of seniority, she can call Matron Enahi the overly familiar and mildly degrading ¡°girhe¡± instead of the far more respectful and appropriate ¡°azim¡±.


    Nothing that might be called an expression crosses the Matron¡¯s face. ¡°You speak to me with such familiarity, Preceptor. One would think you¡¯d never been instructed how to properly address your betters.¡±


    ¡°Betters?¡± Ari makes a show of looking around, brows drawn up in exaggerated confusion. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t see anyone like that around here...¡± And now the faux befuddlement on her face slides into something challenging. Her smile could draw blood. ¡°Girhe.¡±


    The La?ar Commander¡¯s shapely lips curl into a sneer. ¡°Must you be beaten into submission like a beast of burden before you learn your place? If so, please inform this venerable lord and she will graciously assist you.¡±


    Ranan makes the beginning of some sound of protest, but Tselai wisely slaps a hand over his mouth.


    Ari laughs jauntily, lightly tugging Techa¡¯s reins until the two barghests ride shoulder-to-shoulder, and the two witches ride thigh-to-thigh. Techa and Qovar eyeball each other, lips peeled back. Enahi is quite tall for a woman, but Ari is taller and broader. She utilizes her natural advantages to full effect as she leans in, looming over Enahi with a sly smile. ¡°Girhe! So forward. Restrain yourself in front of my disciples, please.¡±


    Matron Enahi¡¯s sneer only deepens. ¡°Filth.¡±


    Ari winks, flashing her dimples. ¡°You just can¡¯t help yourself, can you? You have the whole road, and yet you snuck all the way back here to see me. That¡¯s a little embarrassing for you.¡±


    ¡°Does it ease your mind, to imagine I approach you out of some sense of affection?¡±


    Ari covers her mouth coquettishly. ¡°I really shouldn¡¯t say in front of the children. Oh, but my heart is just aflutter! Please forgive this lowly one¡¯s forwardness, my lord.¡±


    And with that, Ari rears back, winds up, and delivers two rapid and forceful smacks: the first to Enahi¡¯s rear, and the second to Qovar¡¯s.


    The barghest roars ferociously and takes off at a dead sprint, ears pinned back. Matron Enahi swears just as ferociously as she fights to get him back under control, dark hair and cape alike flying in the wind as she shoots past a line of stunned disciples and La?ar scouts who can only stare after the untouchable commander helplessly.


    ¡°Hah!¡± Ari shouts after her. ¡°Sucker!!! Try that shit again and see what happens!!!¡±


    When they finally set up camp the first night, Enahi puts up her tent as far away from Ari¡¯s as she can. Ari laughs softly to herself as she settles down in her bedroll.


    For the first time in days, her dreams are peaceful.

 5: The Journey South (Part II)

    Chapter 5: The Journey South (Part II)


    The Time: The present day, 720 A.E.


    The Place: The kingdom of Saimr


    The next few days pass in largely the same way as the first. They leave the mountains farther and farther behind, trickling bit by bit into the lowlands and flatlands of central Saimr. The weather grows a bit warmer, the settlements and farming villages more numerous.


    For the disciples, some of the luster has started to come off the romantic idea of traveling the countryside. Ari¡¯s bet with herself holds up: by the third day, Tselai is indeed too disgruntled to bother with his fancy hair ornament and embroidered cloak. Every day, the members of the convoy rise at dawn and retire at sunset, eschewing inns and relay stations to instead camp out in the wilderness.


    ¡°These brats are all spoiled,¡± the Grand Matron tells Ari by way of explanation. ¡°A few nights sleeping on the ground ought to build some character, eh?¡±


    (In reality, the Grand Matron is a cheapskate, but Ari can¡¯t blame her: with so very many people headed to the royal capital, the rates of the roadside inns are highway robbery.)


    For the most part, Ari remains at her self-imposed station in the back. Ranan sticks to her like glue, and Tselai and Ambren occasionally join them. The kids are starting to look a bit worn down, unused to riding for such long hours day in and day out, but Ari is having fun. The towns along the royal highway are in shockingly good shape: prosperous, bustling, and largely intact, the damage from the war repaired almost entirely.


    Whatever else Ari might have to say about her master, as a queen, Velnyr is no fool: the common people automatically distrust her, given her cultural background and arcane proclivities, but money and power can buy goodwill at a discount. For the past five years, the queen has focused almost all of her efforts on restoring trade and providing relief to the settlements most affected by the war. The vehicle she uses to deliver this relief is her own priesthood; any town that welcomes the construction of her temples will benefit greatly.


    It¡¯s no secret that a god¡¯s power shapes the lands they claim. Saimr has never before been under the control of such an impressive deity¡ªGod-King Kodezh was formidable, but he doesn¡¯t hold a candle to the Dragon Reborn (or whatever the people are calling her these days). Velnyr can afford to funnel her own power into her domain instead of draining its reserves. As a result, the land itself has been recovering rapidly¡ªevery field Ari sees is bursting with healthy crops; every river and stream babbles merrily with clean water; and the worst storms of the season have subsided nearly as quickly as they arrived. Even the mass graves are peaceful, the resentful spirits ordinarily clustered around such places having long been handled in some fashion or another.


    Regardless of the reason, seeing her homeland restored lifts Ari¡¯s spirits considerably. Occasionally, she¡¯ll split from the herd to go exploring on her own. She can¡¯t bring Techa on these trips without scaring the locals, so she wanders the streets on foot for a while and catches up with the convoy later. Techa is clever enough to stay with the pack whether she has a rider or not, so Ari doesn¡¯t have to worry about stashing her somewhere out of sight, and with her Bloodflame-augmented body, covering a significant distance quickly is no trouble.


    Mostly she pokes around in the markets, buying snacks and little trinkets for the kids (and sometimes her creed siblings). In one town, she¡¯s fortunate enough to find a bookseller with a collection of sordid romances; she eagerly purchases several of these for herself and squirrels them away in the bottom of her pack. On the days she¡¯s gone, she quietly entrusts Ranan to Ambren, who has always accepted his brotherly duties as a matter of course.


    Still, one evening after everyone has bedded down, her keen ears catch a quiet strain of conversation from the tent next to hers. It¡¯s honestly impressive that she manages it because Tselai snores fit to wake the dead.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to keep hanging out with me,¡± Ranan starts awkwardly. ¡°When Sahan isn¡¯t here. I¡­ I know your friends don¡¯t like me. I don¡¯t want¡­¡± He mumbles a bit, then says, ¡°You can just stay with them. I¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    Ari can imagine the expression on Ambren¡¯s face, and judging by the tone of his voice when he finally speaks, she thinks she was pretty close. ¡°Ranan, you¡¯re my friend too.¡±


    Simple, quick, devastating. A super-effective strike!


    Clearly lost for words, it¡¯s a moment or two before Ranan says, ¡°You don¡¯t have to lie!¡± He sounds frustrated. ¡°I know you don¡¯t really have a choice. You¡¯re the senior, so you have to take care of us.¡±


    Ambren sighs softly. ¡°I do try to take care of you two. I don¡¯t always succeed. It¡¯s part of my duties, yes, but it¡¯s also something I want to do.¡± There¡¯s a pause, and the sound of shuffling fabric. When Ambren begins talking again, his voice is even quieter. ¡°You¡¯re not a burden. Not to me or to Sahan. We want to help you because we care about you, but we can¡¯t do that if you don¡¯t let us know when you need it.¡±


    Ranan¡¯s voice is unmistakably misty when he replies. ¡°...Do you¡­ mean that?¡±


    ¡°Of course I do.¡±


    ¡°You really¡­ really want to be my friend?¡±


    There¡¯s a smile in Ambren¡¯s voice. ¡°If that¡¯s what you want, then yes. I¡¯d like that.¡±


    ¡°I-I¡¯d like that too! A lot! I think you¡¯re¡ªyou¡¯re really great, Adaihe!¡±


    Ambren laughs. ¡°I think you¡¯re really great too, Ranan. But we should get some rest.¡±


    They almost manage it until Ranan speaks up again a few minutes later. ¡°Will Tselai be mad if I ride with you when Sahan isn¡¯t here?¡±


    Usually when he talks about his rival/roommate, his voice is much more strident, but now he sounds¡­ uncertain.


    ¡°Tselai¡­¡± Ambren hesitates. ¡°Tselai is too concerned about what other people think of him. He¡¯ll get over it.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it, Ranan. You can ride with me if you want.¡±


    Ari¡¯s heart is full to bursting when she finally falls asleep. The next day, she spots Ranan riding alongside his creed brothers, his face pinched with an anxiety that slowly eases as Ambren effortlessly shields him from the criticism of the other disciples with his patented Older Brother Who¡¯s Just Disappointed In You look. Tselai looks mutinous, but surprisingly, when one of the ruder boys jeers at Ranan openly, he¡¯s the first to whirl around and snap, ¡°You can¡¯t even beat him in the class rankings! Who are you mocking?!¡±


    ***


    On the sixth day of their journey, Ari is invited to ride in the Matrons¡¯ carriage after Mother Mouse decides she¡¯s sick of being cooped up and trades Ari her spot for Techa. The carriage¡¯s interior is spacious and exceedingly comfortable; the benches are padded with blue velvet cushions, the windows are covered in blue velvet drapes, and a small wooden table laden with a small tea set, a bowl of fresh fruit, a pack of cards, and a stack of books separates the two sides.


    Matron Tanavi, Kachai Coven¡¯s master of the Bloodflame, is the first to greet Ari when she enters the carriage. On the outside, she looks far less like a fierce warrior than she does someone¡¯s stern auntie. She¡¯s short and plump, her ordinary but not unappealing face lined with age, and the auburn hair pulled back from her scalp in a no-nonsense bun is streaked with gray.


    ¡°Why, Preceptor, you smell like roses,¡± she says dryly, fanning herself with the book in her hand. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯ve been sneaking off to the baths in town by yourself?¡±


    Ari winks wordlessly and takes a peek at the book¡¯s title. ¡°Ooh. The Lord¡¯s Hunted Concubine? By Jalia Nshanzi? Good one. The leading man¡¯s a little dull, though. The villain is way hotter.¡±


    Matron Tanavi scoffs. ¡°Doesn¡¯t he keep the main character locked in his dungeon for half the book?¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    Matron Tanavi shakes her head with a faint smile. Even though Ari, as a master of the same Exalted Art, could technically be considered her greatest rival and the biggest threat to her position, the two of them have always gotten on like flame and kindling. This is partly because Ari is completely devoid of ambition for a matron¡¯s responsibilities, partly because Matron Tanavi is an eminently reasonable sort of woman, and partly because they both have the same taste in trashy literature.


    Next to Matron Tanavi, an incredible beauty sighs theatrically, flicking her long tawny hair with one manicured hand (her hair, incidentally, also smells like roses).


    ¡°I just don¡¯t understand the appeal of a rude man,¡± Matron Rusala complains, her full, petal-pink lips pulled into a pout. ¡°Why would anyone want some boor who treats you like a pauper?¡±


    Ari laughs. Matron Rusala¡¯s husband is as far from villainous as it¡¯s possible to get¡ªhe¡¯s a gentle, kind-hearted, lovably dumb mage of exceedingly mediocre talents who happens to also be filthy rich. He¡¯s nice to look at, friendly to speak to, and generous with his excessive fortune. A great catch for an apex man-eater! Of course, even without her astounding good looks, Matron Rusala is also a master of the Beguiling Flame¡ªif she wants a man badly enough, she certainly has the tools to reel him in.


    ¡°What?¡± Ari teases. ¡°You¡¯ve never gotten fluttery when someone attractive acts a bit mean to you?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Matron Rusala answers resolutely.


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    ¡°Ohhh,¡± the matron next to Ari begins, smiling innocently. She¡¯s young, fresh-faced, and pretty in a more forgettable way. Her light brown hair is braided simply over her shoulder, and her darker brown eyes dance with mischief. Matron Jairani, master of the Ravaging Flame. ¡°So that¡¯s why you keep bothering Enahi-azim, is it?¡±


    Ari¡¯s smile drops dramatically.


    The carriage erupts into laughter.


    From the seat opposite Matron Jairani, a skeletal hand held together with unnaturally dark tendons extends towards Ari holding an open leather flask. The liquid inside is dark and fragrant. The hand swirls the flask, and the pleasant aroma of spiced wine tickles her nostrils.


    ¡°Go on,¡± a raspy, immaterial voice whispers between her ears. ¡°No one¡¯s spit in it yet.¡±


    In the dim carriage interior, the two pale pinpricks of light in the skeleton¡¯s empty eye sockets shine like distant, creepy stars. A wooden pipe puffing sacred smoke hangs jauntily from one side of its jaw, and the rest of its body is wrapped in standard matronly attire.


    None of the disciples have ever seen Mother Misery¡¯s true face. She usually wears the skin of a grizzled old woman, short-haired and ravaged with burn scars. As the coven¡¯s master of the Pale Flame, she has relatively few adepts under her wing, and she¡¯s always disdained teaching. Ari can only admire her frank laziness.


    Ari eyes the flask. ¡°If I spit in it, do you think I could still convince Enahi-girhe to take a drink?¡±


    Tanavi-azim shakes her head disapprovingly, but Jairani-azim grins and waggles her eyebrows. ¡°Wanna swap spit with her, huh?¡±


    Ari glowers at her as she snatches up the flask and takes a generous swig. It burns nicely going down, and the resulting flush on her face is good camouflage.


    ¡°Anyone clapped eyes on Preceptor Lenara lately?¡± Mother Misery asks. ¡°She¡¯s not dead out there, is she?¡±


    ¡°Just brooding,¡± Jairani-azim says with a shrug. ¡°I think she¡¯s mad that all of Ari-sahan¡¯s disciples were invited and only half of hers made it.¡±


    Ari rolls her eyes skyward. ¡°She has ten disciples! Half of hers still outnumber mine! Honestly, where does she find the time for them all¡­¡±


    ¡°Well, she doesn¡¯t spend half her days reading books like that, for a start,¡± Matron Rusala says pointedly, eyeballing the one in Matron Tanavi¡¯s hand.


    ¡°I don¡¯t either!¡± Ari protests. ¡°Do you know how often the Head Preceptor sends for me to re-align some acolyte¡¯s pneumatic system because they overextended themselves?!¡±


    ¡°Is it as often as you take naps in the Queen¡¯s Garden because you know no one else is willing to step foot in there?¡± Jairani-azim asks mildly.


    ¡°Piss off!¡±


    The rest of the morning passes in relative peace. The matrons pass the time by playing card games, snacking, reading, and bickering idly. Ari munches on so many pomegranate seeds she¡¯s halfway afraid a garden of them will sprout in her gut.


    Unfortunately, the peace doesn¡¯t last.


    Mother Misery notices the commotion first. Ari has pulled out one of her new smut rags to read, and so she doesn¡¯t realize something¡¯s wrong until Mother Misery tugs the curtain on her window aside.


    ¡°Hmm,¡± that otherworldly voice hums. ¡°Seems something has the La?ar Commander in quite a tizzy.¡±


    Ari perks up eagerly at this. ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°Look for yourself.¡± Mother Misery pulls the curtain open wider and leans back, giving Ari a mostly clear view outside the carriage.


    A bit ahead of them, Matron Enahi and Grand Matron Hvasira ride side-by-side. This has been the arrangement for most of their trip, but now there¡¯s a pair of bloodless-looking scouts speaking to the Commander in low, urgent voices. Even their barghests look spooked; their eyes are wild and their ears are flat against their skulls.


    Ari¡¯s earlier excitement at the thought of Enahi-girhe running into some suitably humorous trouble fades. Without a second word, she pops the carriage door open and vaults out.


    ¡°Hey!¡± Jairani-azim protests, ¡°At least close the door properly!¡± But Ari is already striding towards the familiar chestnut-colored figure of her barghest. She jogs to keep pace with Techa¡¯s long legs, sending a beseeching smile at the matron currently in her saddle.


    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Mother Mouse, but do you mind if I take her back for a bit?¡±


    The lanky, fretful woman blinks down at her. ¡°I-I¡­ Well, I don¡¯t see why not¡­ Is something wrong?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure it¡¯s nothing,¡± Ari says easily. She graciously helps the matron dismount. Mother Mouse is no martial expert; she¡¯s the master of the Cleansing Flame and a healer first, foremost, and entirely. Techa is a very good polite girl and stands still as tone as Ari and Mother Mouse swap places. By the time she retakes the reins, Enahi is already splitting off from the Grand Matron, spurring Qovar into a swift, graceful canter.


    Ari clicks her tongue and urges Techa to keep pace, leaving the poor, bewildered Mother Mouse behind to make her own travel arrangements.


    The second she draws into earshot of Enahi, the younger matron whips around with a fierce, soundless snarl. ¡°Turn around, mutt. I¡¯ve no desire to mind you right now.¡±


    ¡°Mm, I don¡¯t think so,¡± Ari replies simply. Techa pulls even with Qovar, her tail wagging excitedly at the prospect of a hunt. ¡°Where are we going?¡±


    Matron Enahi stares at her. ¡°Are you dull? Turn around.¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡± She smiles smugly at Matron Enahi, who has very little real authority over her and who can¡¯t waste time chasing her off. ¡°I just wanted to keep you company, Girhe. I thought you¡¯d be excited! You seemed so eager to spend time with me before.¡±


    Enahi sputters with silent rage and then spits out, ¡°Rot, then.¡±


    Flounce.


    Qovar picks up speed until he¡¯s moving at a gallop. Techa falls into step behind him, Ari grinning all the while. Matron Enahi seems determined to ignore her and with the wind whistling in their ears there¡¯s no point throwing barbs at each other anyway. Ari simply keeps her head down and her senses open as they ride, the creamy curl of the highway disappearing over rolling hills, through stands of broadleaf trees and clinging underbrush.


    It¡¯s some fifteen or twenty minutes later when she first detects a disturbance in the Aether. Ari closes her eyes and shuts out the world, sharpening that sixth sense. To her, the Aether usually feels like a cool, lazy stream swirling around her ankles, its eddies and currents steady and predictable. But there¡¯s something violent thrashing in the distance, something massive enough to send ripples far downstream. She frowns.


    A rift. That¡¯s¡­ weird in a bad way. Small rifts in the Amnion can open naturally, or more commonly as a result of excessive arcane interference, but this isn¡¯t a small one. This is big enough to be intentional. Small rifts are inconvenient but not especially dangerous if addressed quickly. Large rifts¡­ well. Sometimes things slip through.


    ¡°Enahi-girhe!¡± Ari calls.


    Enahi ignores her.


    ¡°Enahiiii.¡±


    Silence.


    ¡°Enahi-?aaaaaa~¡±


    ¡°What?!¡± Enahi finally explodes over her shoulder.


    Ari blinks innocently. ¡°You didn¡¯t hear me the first time? Enahi-girhe, you should know, there¡¯s a rift up ahead.¡±


    The matron swears, but she knows better than to doubt Ari¡¯s Aethersight. ¡°It¡¯s still open?¡±


    ¡°Mm. It¡¯s a pretty big one.¡± Ari raises her voice. ¡°What exactly did your scouts report?¡±


    Enahi deliberates for a moment, clearly deciding whether or not it¡¯s worth disclosing vital information to the pest latched onto her leg, but finally she calls back, ¡°Greater demonic activity near a human settlement. Multiple casualties and significant property damage.¡±


    Huh.


    ¡°What kind of demon?¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t know.¡±


    Ari¡¯s frown deepens. Whatever her personal issues with Enahi, she can acknowledge that her La?ar sentinels are no slouches. They¡¯re well-versed in diabolism; identifying and containing even unusual demonic entities shouldn¡¯t be a problem for them. Even a single pair of scouts should have been able to dispatch most minor to moderate threats, which means whatever they¡¯re about to face is something far more dangerous than she¡¯d ordinarily expect to see in such a rural area.


    It usually takes multiple witches to hold open a rift large enough to admit a greater demon into the world, or some terrible calamity or massive loss of life that thins the Amnion to the point of substantial tearing. But as far as she¡¯s aware, there are no covens in this area, and there haven¡¯t been any disasters, natural or otherwise.


    Rogue witches, maybe? They crop up every now and then, but generally rogues don¡¯t last very long¡ªthey tend to be addled from Calamitous Blooms. She wouldn¡¯t expect any rogues to be strong enough, coordinated enough, or intelligent enough to open a summoning rift. And even if there were rogues who could be all of those things¡­ why here??? On the ride over, they haven¡¯t passed anything more exciting than a sheep pasture.


    She doesn¡¯t have much longer to wonder. As they crest the top of the next hill, Enahi suddenly jerks Qovar to a halt, and Ari steers Techa around to avoid smacking into him. Both of them stare grim-faced at the scene below.


    There certainly is a rift, and it certainly is big. A weeping gash in reality some fifty feet tall and at least as wide stains the air, the world¡¯s lifeblood oozing out onto the grass below in steaming silvery pools of compacted anima. Before it is a village¡ªor what would have passed for a village perhaps an hour ago. Everywhere she looks, there is devastation. Billowing walls of violet flame, wooden shacks reduced to no more than splinters, partially-consumed people and livestock littering the ground, the roofs, the bowed-out walls. There are two figures moving unhurriedly through the wafting smoke, as though searching for something, but the rather larger problem is currently hunched over a barn with its roof torn away, plucking out bleating, terrified goats with surprisingly dexterous clawed fingers.


    Its head looks¡­ a bit like a horse¡¯s skull with part of the skin peeled off, the rest falling from the exposed bone in wet lappets. This demon might have even been a horse at some point, for some of its yellowed teeth are still flat and square, more fit for chewing grass than flesh. The rest, however, are as long and sharp as swords and smeared with blood and viscera. The rest of the form is undeniably humanoid, but¡­ it doesn¡¯t appear to really have skin or organs or¡­ whatever, just¡­ a bunch of bones haphazardly melded together by the guiding hands of the living darkness clinging to its body. That darkness is so thick she can¡¯t see through it, and oddly¡­ wet-looking. It dribbles and smears across the demon¡¯s bones but leaves no trail behind it.


    Ari apologizes internally to the scouts she inadvertently doubted earlier. She doesn¡¯t know what the hell this thing is either.


    There are eyes sunken deep into that half-naked skull, rancid dried-blood red and mad with hunger. Those eyes must be fully functional, because they roll up to regard the two figures atop the hill. The demon stops totally to stare at them, one frantic goat still screaming in its grasp.


    ¡°Ahhhh shit,¡± Ari mutters.


    The demon slams the goat down to the ground with a wet, horrible squelch. Then it opens its enormous jaws and howls, spraying bright-hot violet embers in a plume.


    The two figures in the smoke stop as well, turning slowly to regard the newcomers. Ari can¡¯t make out much, but they¡¯re masked and cloaked in a way that¡¯s horrendously familiar.


    Seda had worn garb like that once.


    ¡°Enahi!¡± she bellows. ¡°Take the casters. I¡¯ve got that¡­ thing.¡±


    She leaps off Techa in one move and sends her sprinting back towards the treeline at the bottom of the hill with a smack to the flank.


    ¡°You idiot! Wait!¡± Enahi snaps.


    But Ari is already taking off towards the demon, Varul hissing and juddering at her side.

 6: Harbinger

    Chapter 6: Harbinger


    The Time: Present day, 720 A.E.


    The Place: Central Saimr


    It¡¯s not that Enahi is wrong¡ªit really is quite stupid to engage opponents like this with no information and (at least for now) no reinforcements. But if there¡¯s anyone left that she could possibly save who dies because she¡¯s sitting around twiddling her thumbs, she¡¯ll be very cross with herself.


    On a whim, Ari skids to a stop halfway down the hill and calls over her shoulder, ¡°If you¡¯re scared, just stay there and wait for help to get here!¡± She winks, though Enahi probably can¡¯t make it out. ¡°Gi?va will take care of it!¡±


    She can handle it by herself, probably. It¡¯ll just be easier if Enahi provides a worthwhile distraction, which she¡¯s surely capable of if her impenetrable hubris is any indication.


    Something kinda-sorta like concern squirms around inside her ribs, but Ari quashes it ruthlessly. If Enahi is good at anything, it¡¯s being a proper nuisance in battle. The Holy Shadow is an art dedicated to creating diversions and punishing anyone who can¡¯t break through them. She might be the matron best-suited to facing two unknown threats, if only because she can disengage in a blink if she¡¯s overwhelmed.


    Ah, what is she worrying about? If Enahi gets knocked around a bit, maybe it¡¯ll cut her ego down to a healthier size. Ooh, and maybe she¡¯ll faint like a flower in the breeze, and then Ari will have to carry her nobly back to camp in front of everyone¡ª


    Oh, oh, or maybe she¡¯ll wind up poisoned, like that one scene in To Court a Princess! And Ari will solicitously dab her brow with a wet cloth while she spills all her deepest darkest secrets in a feverish haze¡ª


    There¡¯s a fair bit of distance between them, but Ari can vicariously feel the way the air frosts over when her words strike the La?ar Commander¡¯s dignified ears. For a moment, Enahi is soundless in her apoplexy, positively quivering with rage. Before she can transmute fury into words, Ari blows her a kiss and sets off down the hill again.


    The beast doesn¡¯t patiently wait for its newest meal to deliver itself; as Ari draws Varul from its sheath and wills its shape to change, the demon lunges forward with shocking speed and violence. Its misshapen legs strike the ground with a sound and force that rattles Ari¡¯s teeth inside her jaw, and she leaps away from the dark blur scrambling towards her just in time to avoid one enormous clawed hand slamming into the spot she vacated. Thick clods of dirt spray up in a dark cloud; the demon bellows with rage. Ari lands yards away, throwing out her free hand to steady herself, letting her joints go liquid to absorb the impact.


    In her opposite hand, Varul is melting: globules of bronze shimmer and bubble, stretching and twisting and spewing gouts of superheated steam that considerately curl around Ari¡¯s hand without touching it. In mere moments, the plain dagger has become a moderately less plain glaive. Held upright, it is every inch as tall as the woman who wields it. Upon its head is a beautiful, wicked, single-edged blade, and the hook on its reverse side resembles a startlingly accurate finger-sized fang. A firm leather grip wraps around the haft, granting her a stable handhold.


    A polearm will give her better reach and maneuverability than a sword. A bow might¡¯ve been nice too, if Ari could hit the broad side of a barn with one. Somehow she doubts this demon will stand perfectly still while she spends thirty straight seconds lining up a shot from ten meters out.


    The beast rears back, its glistening black sinew bulging and contracting as it steadies itself. In the very brief moment of respite this allows her, Ari¡¯s mind whirls.


    Alright. Okay. She needs a plan of attack, but first she needs to understand what this thing is and what it can do. She¡¯s fought demons aplenty, but never one this big. Big demons tend to be old demons¡ªand most demons in Ansera don¡¯t survive into antiquity.


    Generally, greater demons are born from Calamitous Blooms. Once a sunseed spoils and warps, it will drive its host to ravening hunger, transforming them into a beast endlessly seeking to quench its anguish with bloodshed. Most of these creatures are either slain or starve to death on their own before they become serious problems, yet¡­ despite its gluttony, this one doesn¡¯t brim with the frantic mania of a beast maddened by deprivation. It doesn¡¯t seem inclined to attack the two people hunting around the wreckage, either. Those must be its handlers.


    If the demon isn¡¯t from this realm, then its masters likely aren¡¯t either¡­ Ack, but it¡¯s one thing to summon a lesser demon from the Eight Heavens, and another thing entirely for a greater demon and two very capable diabolists to open a massive rift from the Eight Heavens to a lower realm uninvited! It can be done, of course, Sahan had explained that to her, but not without significant risk to both the caster and the realm they¡¯re invading.


    Unless¡ªthey were invited, but by who, and how, and why¡ª


    The demon opens its mouth, and Ari has just enough time to spot the violet light swelling within its cavernous throat before a searing gobbet of True Flame shoots out towards her. With a curse, Ari dives out of its path, tumbling the rest of the way down the hill¡­ less than gracefully. The ball of screaming violet fire strikes the grassy hillside and explodes with a blast of force that would¡¯ve scalded Ari¡¯s skin clean off if she were just about anyone else. As it is, the wave of hot air buffets her backwards, and she throws up her arms to shield her face from flying debris.


    Right. So this is a Harbinger-class demon, then¡ªa monster capable of summoning the True Flame. She¡¯d kind of been hoping those walls of fire were courtesy of the demon¡¯s handlers, but no such luck.


    The beast charges through the blaze, which is already beginning to spread, its eyes wide and avid, curtains of raw flesh swinging. It runs hunched on all fours, its claws leaving deep furrows in the soil.


    In the stillness between one breath and the next, Ari reaches deep into her core and¡­ coaxes. This flame requires only the gentlest urging to spark. As soon as it answers her call, the anxious thoughts racing inside her skull slow to a crawl. Power like warm honey flows out from her core and takes a leisurely spill through her spiritual veins, tinging her ever-cycling stream of numina a deep, sumptuous red. The tension in her muscles loosens; the taut expression on her face relaxes into a serene smile.


    All at once, the world is sharper and clearer and kinder. There¡¯s a song she can¡¯t replicate humming along her skin, tickling the inside of her ribs, ghosting kisses down her spine.


    Give me yourself, it whispers, and I will give you unity. Let go of your suffering, and I will give you everything.


    When the demon surges forward again, one hand outstretched, it¡¯s almost laughably easy to dart around its fingers. Ari spins, twirls the glaive over her shoulder, and Varul parts the air like a sigh. The impossibly sharp edge of its blade carves a trench into the back of that hand. Hot, putrid dark blood sprays breathlessly from malformed veins; where it splashes onto the ground, the grass shrivels.


    Ari retreats like a minnow through a clump of rushes, like it¡¯s a step in a dance. The song between her ears softens with sweet joy. Her steps are so light that her boots hardly strike the earth. The seconds pass like they¡¯re reluctant to take their leave; the air on her skin is warm and tender.


    The demon yowls, its breath sparking, but even as Ari watches the gash Varul left has begun to knit back together. She thinks, without any real urgency, that it¡¯s very unfortunate that she¡¯s run into a Harbinger-class demon with such potent self-restoration abilities. That was far from a fatal wound, but it wasn¡¯t a tiny scratch either. For it to disappear so quickly is¡­ surprising.


    Ah, well. Her smile doesn¡¯t fade. She could stay like this forever, just close her eyes and drift, let that beautiful song carry her away¡ª


    She won¡¯t, of course. The conscious part of her mind is small but experienced, and it¡¯s well-aware of the Bloodflame¡¯s dangers.


    Ari laughs as the demon pummels the ground in a fury, screaming its rage with a cloud of embers. She twists between its strikes, fluid and untouchable, the rumbling earth beneath her hardly an impediment. It doesn¡¯t breathe the True Flame again, which means it¡¯s either too simple-minded to cast and sling blows (unlikely) or that there¡¯s a limit to how frequently it can cast (more likely). It takes a great deal of energy to heal that fast; it probably won¡¯t be able to cast and heal simultaneously.


    With a clear, if simple, goal in mind, Ari slips beneath the demon¡¯s flailing claws and aims Varul at whatever its blade can reach: the beast¡¯s forearms, its thighs, its abdomen. Shallow, exploratory punctures and gashes; she never presses so deeply that she¡¯ll be unable to withdraw in time to avoid a blow. These wounds heal just as quickly as the first, but the beast doesn¡¯t draw back and it doesn¡¯t call forth its flame.


    Which is all well and good, but the Bloodflame is not a patient friend. If this battle comes down to attrition alone, Ari is at a significant disadvantage. She¡¯s not channeling a great deal of power right this moment, but if she wants to seriously injure this thing, she¡¯s gonna have to up her output¡ªand the more she channels, the faster the Bloodflame drains her.


    She has some other options, but¡­ this is the safest one, for now. The most restrained option.


    In her periphery, somewhere off to her left, a tide of darkness swells and crashes, a wave of relentless shadow transforming Enahi¡¯s side of the playing field into a lightless smear. Ari¡¯s only distracted by it for a moment, but a moment is long enough for the beast to catch her with a side-swipe that sends her sailing back through the air with such speed she doesn¡¯t even realize she¡¯s been hit at first.


    Ari manages to curl into herself before she impacts the wooden wall of a hut and explodes through it in a shower of splinters. Thankfully, this arrests her momentum enough that when she slams into the next wall, she merely cracks it instead of soaring straight through. She slides down, briefly dazed, until she hits something hard. The pain blossoms shyly against the wall of euphoria the Bloodflame has deployed around her, no more potent than the brush of a moth¡¯s wings.


    ¡°Ow!¡± she says cheerfully. The song in her head jingles like wedding bells, as though it¡¯s laughing with her. She sits up, looks around just enough to get a bare glimpse of her surroundings¡ªsingle-room shack, straw tick mattress in the corner, cauldron over a fire pit, chimney on the far wall, a ruined shelf beneath her. And¡ªoh! That might be useful¡­


    As the demon thunders towards the hut, white foam dribbling from its jaws, something big and boxy hurtles through the hole in the wall. A chunk of brick wood stove smashes into the creature¡¯s skull. The sound is tremendous. Yellowed bone cracks and caves; one eye is pulverized into a pinkish paste. The demon¡¯s lower jaw detaches from a hinge, which renders its pained bellow all the more pathetic. It staggers back, collapsing to its haunches, one hand raised to shield its ruined skull as it screams.


    Ari dips through her impromptu doorway and darts forward, grinning widely. With a single, powerful leap, she lands first on the demon¡¯s thigh, and then on its shoulder. Scrabbling around its thrashing neck for a foothold, she steadies the glaive in her hand and drives the point of its blade deep, deep, deep into the column of its throat. Half that bronze shaft disappears into its oozing black hide before the glaive can go no farther.


    ¡°Varul,¡± she whispers, ¡°Akhayr.¡±


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    Feast.


    The glaive shudders.


    Ari manages to hang on for a moment longer before she¡¯s shaken loose, but she¡¯s done what she set out to do. As she hits the ground and leaps away once more, she glances up at the bronze gleam in the demon¡¯s neck. Wisps of steam whirl into the open air. The demon screeches, raising a hand to pull this irritant free, but as soon as its fingers touch that line of bronze they jerk back reflexively. The oily dark ¡°flesh¡± covering them looks¡­ decayed.


    The demon thrashes and howls and lunges, its body working feverishly to repair the damage to its skull. Though Ari isn¡¯t inhibited by pain, and her trip through a wall did not shatter bone or burst organs, she is also not quite in the shape she was a moment ago. Like this, she¡¯s resilient and she can heal fast too, but she¡¯s not invincible.


    In its mindless agony, and at her relatively sluggish pace, the beast manages to hammer her twice more. They¡¯re both glancing blows, but the pain feels a little more immediate this time. It doesn¡¯t stop her, but it¡¯s becoming more and more of a challenge to keep out of the creature¡¯s reach. It chases her with unerring ferocity, its remaining eye burning, its breathing frantic and interspersed with distressed moans.


    Varul is doing good work, but it takes time. She just has to stay alive until it¡¯s done.


    She¡¯d turn and flee, but she¡¯s not entirely certain she¡¯s fast enough to outrun this thing in its frenzy, and she has to make sure it doesn¡¯t suddenly decide to turn on Enahi. Besides, if anyone managed to escape this shitshow, she can¡¯t risk leading the beast right to them.


    How long has it been? It feels like hours. Sweat pools in the dip of her spine; her skin feels tight. The unconscious grin on her face is starting to hurt and she can¡¯t stop it, and the song in her skull is louder with every passing second. It¡¯s¡ªfine. She¡¯s fine. She can keep going, she just has to be careful. This isn¡¯t nearly the hardest she¡¯s ever pushed herself with the Bloodflame, but every time she does this the recovery period wipes her out for days after, if she¡¯s lucky.


    Dodge. Dodge. Dodge. Blood-dark froth drips down the beast¡¯s chest; the cloud of steam spewing from its neck is growing thicker and hotter. The wetness around the wound is¡­ wetter? Than before? Probably? This thing is slowing down, but so is she. She could push more, surrender more of herself to the song, but that sliver of her rational mind twangs stubbornly. No, no. She shouldn¡¯t do that, then.


    Over the demon¡¯s hulking shoulder, that swirl of shadows is alive. Flashes of light rupture in its depths, there and gone in an instant. Impossible to tell how that fight is going, but the fact that it is still going at all is¡­ hopefully a good sign.


    It¡¯s not distraction that trips her up this time, just good old-fashioned weariness. The demon roars and sweeps out with one hand, and Ari avoids it, but the other lashes out with morbid speed and she isn¡¯t fast enough. Those fingers clamp around her midsection like a vice. Her ribs creak; all her breath jets out of her lungs.


    Uh-oh. Ari thrashes strategically with her limited range of motion, striking knuckles until the bone beneath the ¡°flesh¡± cracks. But it¡¯s not enough. The demon, now heaving laboriously, lifts her up. Its jaw¡ªpartially recovered¡ªyawns open, and that ominous violet light sparks in its throat.


    Okay, okay, it¡¯s fine, she can survive this, it¡¯ll hurt but she can¡ª


    The expected flames never come. Instead, the beast makes an awful retching sound, its eye bulging. The True Flame gutters out. Ari has just enough time to be relieved before a tide of something else floods out instead: boiling, liquid darkness swimming with chunks of partially-dissolved organ meat drenches her from head to foot.


    It burns, aghhhhhh!!!


    The beast sways on its feet, trying to force its jaws shut, but it¡¯s helpless to stop the waves of melting viscera erupting from its throat. Ari slips from its twitching fingers and, blinded by gunk, narrowly avoids being crushed as the demon hits the ground with a thud. Its throat works convulsively to expel larger and larger chunks of meat¡ªentire swathes of desiccated tissue clog its airways; the pool of shining dark blood spilling from its body grows steadily.


    The demon seizes, seizes, seizes, its pitiful choking groans and snorts growing softer and more strained until, finally, with one last jolt, it falls limp. Flat on her back next to it, Ari miserably coughs up mouthfuls of putrid black ooze.


    The song in her head grows quieter and quieter until it disappears completely, and the warmth in her veins recedes, leaving her empty and shivering. She doesn¡¯t move. She can¡¯t. There are dull booms somewhere in the distance, their sharp edges swallowed up by Enahi¡¯s shadows. She should¡­ try and get up. Go help.


    But there¡¯s a strange feeling under her skin, a sinking numbness that has nothing to do with the lingering weakness from the Bloodflame burning through her pneumatic reserves.


    Is she fucking poisoned? She better not be fucking poisoned. She¡¯s gonna be so pissed if she¡¯s covered in monster slop and it poisoned her. Enahi was the one who was supposed to get poisoned! Not her! She doesn¡¯t wanna be the one divulging her deepest darkest desires in a feverish haze!


    With great effort, Ari raises a hand and wipes her face. Mostly, she just smears the gunk around more.


    ¡°Varul,¡± she croaks. ¡°Come.¡±


    Nothing. She cracks one eyelid, then startles to realize she¡¯d closed her eyes in the first place.


    ¡°Varul,¡± she tries again, a bit more forcefully, ¡°Bilim.¡±


    Silence. Well, silence except for the wet, visceral sound of Varul chowing down on demon goop. Ari sighs. Ahhh, she can¡¯t be upset. Varul so rarely has the chance to eat anything besides ambient energy these days. In Ari¡¯s hands, that incomparable holy blade¡ªthe Divine Famine, the Devouring Beast, Souleater, Spellbreaker, the Terror in the North Wind¡ªis more used to chopping vegetables than raining death and destruction on her enemies.


    She needs to get up. Where are the reinforcements? They¡¯re coming, right? Grand Matron Hvasira didn¡¯t send them off to fight a Harbinger and two interdimensional interlopers alone, right?


    It¡¯s so dark. Why is it dark? Is that Enahi¡¯s fault? Oh, no, it¡¯s just¡ªher eyes are closed again¡­


    In the end, it¡¯s Ari who wilts like a delicate flower¡­ a delicate flower absolutely soaked in monster puke.


    ***


    A strange thing happens, after Ari faints. A few strange things, really.


    The first strange thing is that the battle in the shadows comes to an abrupt halt. Being that this happens under a blanket of pure darkness, it¡¯s impossible to see what actually unfolds. Put simply: one moment, a lone young matron is valiantly but barely holding her own against two expert arcanists. The next moment, the lone young matron who is barely holding her own suddenly seems to hold her own quite effortlessly. One moment, there are three combatants. The next moment, there is one.


    As the dark fog dissipates, two bodies lie limp on the grass. The third stands placidly between them, hardly a hair out of place. She sheathes the blade in her hand¡ªa pristine silver shortsword, a suitable weapon for an assassin¡ªand surveys the bodies expressionlessly, head tilted. After many long seconds, she strides forward and selects one of her enemy¡¯s fallen blades at random. Then, with careful, practiced movements, she presses the blade against her own skin and begins to cut. Not deeply, and not in any vital or especially inconvenient places, but angled such that it would be difficult¡ªeven impossible¡ªto tell that another¡¯s hand did not gouge these wounds into her flesh.


    After a handful of slices, the young matron repositions the blade exactly where she found it, removes her jacket, and begins¡ªwith calculated slapdashery¡ªto tear off strips and apply them as bandages.


    The matron raises a hand. The rift, that tear in the sky, begins to close.


    The entire affair takes mere minutes. When it is finished, the young matron glances across the field of wreckage at the other two limp forms sprawled across the grass.


    Anyone who has seen Matron Enahi in motion would describe her gait as ¡°determined¡±, or perhaps ¡°rigorous¡±. ¡°Like a runaway horsecart¡±, even. But when she crosses the field beneath the glare of the afternoon sun, she moves slowly, precisely, elegantly. There is strength in every step, an unyielding inevitability to every footfall, but there is also beauty and a sense of crushing timelessness. The stride of an immortal.


    The matron comes to a stop above the insensate preceptor, her hands folded primly over her abdomen. She looks at the preceptor¡¯s slumbering form. She looks at the dead demon, dissolving further with every moment.


    ¡°?iyvir emers,¡± she says flatly.


    There is a high-pitched, shrieking sort of sound from the general vicinity of the dead demon¡¯s neck. A beat later, something bright whizzes through the air¡ªthe matron takes a single, unhurried step back¡ªand slams into the dirt in front of the preceptor. The glaive Varul is alight with stolen soulstuff, golden and resplendent, its once-plain shaft now writhing with ornate engraving. It hisses and rattles threateningly, and upon the flat of its blade a single silver eye opens, cat-like pupil contracting furiously.


    The matron sneers. ¡°You would dare?¡±


    The glaive belches steam. The pressure of its aura withers the grass around it.


    A single gloved finger catches the edge of that blade, and the glaive stills. Its eye darts back and forth, quivering with impotent rage.


    ¡°Impudent child,¡± the matron snaps. ¡°?i?mir.¡±


    The glaive shudders once, violently, in resistance, but it cannot overcome this command. Its eye begins to droop and then disappears entirely. The cloak of magic enshrouding it fades, and a beat later a plain bronze glaive clatters to the ground next to its master. The matron raises her hand again, and darkness swells beneath the demon¡¯s body. After a few seconds, it begins to sink. Before a minute is up, there is no trace of it remaining. The bodies of the interlopers are still untouched.


    The matron sighs, the emotion attached to it indecipherable. Slowly, the matron nudges the glaive aside and crouches next to the preceptor. Blood seeps through her improvised bandages. There is blood on the preceptor, too¡ªnot the demon¡¯s, but her own. A deep puncture in her side, its recovery slowed to a crawl by the poison thrumming in her veins. The matron eyes this wound, tugs one glove off with her teeth, and reaches out.


    Briefly, her pale, ungloved fingers trace the outline of this puncture, feather-light, hardly a touch at all. She thumbs the shredded fabric of the preceptor¡¯s coat, where the blood has already begun to dry and harden. She brushes the dirt and debris away. And then, with an exacting sort of languidness, one finger presses against the heart of the perforation. And keeps pressing.


    The preceptor makes a harsh, aborted sound in her throat as her flesh squelches around the intrusion, her face twisting in discomfort. But she doesn¡¯t wake. That single finger pushes in until there¡¯s no longer any give in the tissue beneath it, until blood is welling freely up and over its knuckle. She twists and angles her hand to catch it. The preceptor turns her head with an incomprehensible mumble, brow furrowed, but the matron does not withdraw for a long moment. Her expression, had there been anyone around to try and decipher it, would still be unreadable.


    Finally, as fresh red blood bubbles and weeps and pools in the divots of her curled fingers, the matron slowly pulls her hand free. The preceptor¡¯s expression loosens, but only somewhat. The matron examines her bloodied hand with some interest, turning it this way and that, admiring the crimson sheen coating her pallid skin. She dips her head and draws her hand to her chin¡ªshapely lips just parted, nostrils flaring lightly¡ªand then, very slowly, drags her tongue in a long, leisurely glide from palm to fingertip.


    The finest tremor travels down her spine. A stifled, barely-audible sound catches in her throat.


    It takes several passes to clean her hand entirely, but the matron never falters in her task, even sucking the pad of each finger past her lips to draw out the blood from beneath her nails. All the while, the preceptor shifts uncomfortably in the grass, her brows still furrowed as the aggravated wound leaks.


    Once her hand is covered only in saliva, not a drop of blood to be found, the matron wipes herself clean on the preceptor¡¯s abused coat and replaces her glove. Then, she peels back one of the makeshift bandages on her wrist and lowers her mouth again. This blood, she calls forth much more freely, and it is as black and cold as the night sky¡ªas lightless as the demon¡¯s, but richer, fresher, more potent.


    When her mouth is full, she leans forward, waves of glossy dark hair tumbling across the preceptor¡¯s cheek as she presses their lips together forcefully, unbothered by demon blood or dirt and grime. With merciless efficiency, her tongue pries the preceptor¡¯s lips apart. The preceptor makes another small, helpless little sound, this one slightly less agonized.


    With one hand, the matron tilts the preceptor¡¯s head back, with the other, she massages the line of her throat, triggering her automatic reflex to swallow. Half of the first mouthful of blood ends up leaking down her chin (it¡¯s impatiently dabbed away), but the second and third are swallowed without incident. After the fourth, the matron keeps their lips pressed together, idly stroking and twining her tongue around the preceptor¡¯s lifeless one, even occasionally sucking the tip of the preceptor¡¯s tongue into her own mouth. The slick sounds are obscene, the sort one might expect to hear in a brothel and not on a battlefield. With both hands now free, she holds the preceptor¡¯s head in place, never allowing her to turtle away from the relentless slide of lips and teeth and tongue.


    In time, the matron grows more aggressive¡ªperhaps frustrated, perhaps merely bored. Gentle nips turn to bites; the gentle pressure against the preceptor¡¯s jaw tightens to bruising. More blood blooms as the preceptor¡¯s lips and tongue split beneath the onslaught. The matron attentively licks it away, not a drop wasted.


    Suddenly, she draws back with a snarl and buries her head in the crook of the preceptor¡¯s shoulder¡ªnot quite gasping for breath, but certainly breathing more quickly than she was moments ago. Her fingers are pressing very hard into the preceptor¡¯s jaw; her tanned skin pales beneath that grip. It takes visible effort for her to withdraw completely, and soon the reason is apparent¡ªconcerned voices, echoing from the treeline; the flare of several familiar auras; the growls and yips of unsettled barghests.


    The matron sits upright, her face perfectly blank once more.


    ¡°Here!¡± she calls, her voice tremulous though her expression is indifferent. ¡°Quickly. The preceptor is ill.¡±