The Arcana: Shadow Wars, Codex I

Chapter XXVIII

Taking the Throne

In which Zephyra confronts her subjects

In the present day, Zephyra once again found herself staring down at the dying lord of Elamis. Bleak, beseeching, he looked up at her.

«Tell me why.» Even in her inner voice she whispered.

Though carefully curated, Amavand’s memories hinted of an awful, unbearable truth. He had taken her to somehow thwart the Seeker. A False One, whose servant would naturally be his enemy.

But Zephyra? She had been a child when Artostes so artfully arranged her abduction. What could child-Zephyra have done to deserve that? Her father—Amavand—had gone along with this plan. Out of spite? Personal grievance didn’t account for his actions; his memories made it clear he didn’t so much as know her mother’s name. Furthermore, the woman had done nothing to him.

For herself, Zephyra felt no remorse for the blood on her own hands. What she regretted was the necessity of killing, but those she executed had shown themselves the enemy of the Greatest One. Even the dryads, who should have been holy, did not give her pause, because she knew she was doing them a favor by sending them to the Greatest One.

Yet despite all of that, not once did she think of slaughtering the families of the slain. Nor did she consider snatching their children. They were innocent, for they never directly acted against the Greatest One. In some distant future everyone would see the truth about her goddess, once Father arranged things so she could give them the revelation. This mercy Zephyra’s readily granted her enemies.

Mercy Amavand denied to her mother. Perhaps. And perhaps the rest of her family, even though they’d done nothing against him or the Greatest One. All to steal her.

«I did love you,» he said, repeating his earlier entreaty. «I made you in the image of the Greatest One…She wanted you…I gave you to Her.»

But not for Zephyra’s sake.

Emotions surged through her, nearly overwhelming her to the point that she almost became corporeal again, and stopped herself just in time. The foreigners still swarmed about the room, and she still needed to avoid them capturing her.

«You lay your actions at Her feet? You dare?»

It hit her then. Everything Amavand had shown her in his memories led to one awful picture. She loved the Greatest One, with a sincere, passionate devotion. Spite against the other gods did not motivate her; they were just pretenders and she did not regard them. Neither revenge nor resentment drove her, either.

But not so with Amavand. Every choice he’d made was selfish, and he lacked scruples from start to finish. He went so far as to sully an innocent man who sought only to help him, because he was too cowardly to face down Nekdel, a prophet of a False One. Cold dismay washed over her, when she it dawned on her that neither Amavand’s father, nor Amavand himself, ever disputed Nekdel’s assessment of Amavand as a weak-minded follower.

A pit yawned wide in her stomach as an image of Gira flashed before her eyes. For months she’d feared for her own life, feared Amavand would kill her … because Gira had influenced him to distrust her. Somehow, she did not believe Protector Baraz would have been so ready to believe his own child would kill him, in the absence of proof hard enough to shatter adamant.

No matter the angle of examination, she could find nothing to put Protector Amavand’s actions in a noble light, and it sickened her.

Except…the Greatest One approved of his actions. She blessed his endeavors and gave him guidance to facilitate them.

Why? Why did the Greatest One, and her father—Protector Amavand—choose such a strategy where Zephyra was concerned? Why couldn’t they have chosen a volunteer? Why not an acolyte? Why did they need to deceive her? Zephyra had always thought the methods of an undertaking dictated the quality of its outcome…and the worthiness of pursuing it in the first place.

What outcome could possibly justify their actions?

Something of her disgust and dismay must have shown in her face, because Amavand’s mouth twisted into a snarl.

«You wouldn’t understand,» he groused. «You were chosen by a goddess, not I. You were declared fit to wear your crown, not I. You have been saved by your goddess, not I.»

For the first time in her life, Zephyra had to resist the urge to slap him.

«I do not want to hear your self-pity, Lord Protector. Your city is about to burn. Your people will go to war, and these foreigners will sunder everything you’ve done. Tell me why! What did the Greatest One—»

«Because She asked it of me,» he said simply, turning his head away from her. Green decay crept up his neck and onto his jaw. «Because I owed Her everything, Zephyra. It was a small price to pay, what She asked. And why should you care? I have elevated you to a position of honor. You are the one She chose. Be grateful,» Amavand insisted.

Shadows began to fill the room. Only an hour ago Zephyra would have hoped it meant the Greatest One was coming to receive Her faithful servant.

But then her gaze dropped to Amavand’s stumps.

«Your blood begat the rabisu,» she said slowly. «And salt wielded by the she-wolves killed them. Why would that happen?»

All of her life—all that she could remember—Amavand taught her what was true: centuries ago, corruption overtook the Children of the False Ones, so much so they betrayed the Greatest One. Instead of serving Her, they worked against her. Many of the scrolls in the citadel’s library confirmed this claim. The ones that didn’t were only propaganda, Amavand insisted. He never mentioned what category stories of rabisu fell into. Truth, or propaganda?

Amavand closed his eyes, and for a heart-stopping moment Zephyra feared he had died. But after a moment his eyelids flickered, then opened. The pinch of his mouth in tandem with his glare almost reduced her to her childhood, when she had done something wrong and he would ask pointed questions.

Almost.

This time he would not cow her. For one thing, the memories of a childhood with him were lies.

In the distance, the bells rang again.

«You told me you drank the nectar,» she said. «But you really summoned a fellshade, didn’t you? The truth, Lord Protector: did you call upon a False One to help you?»

His mocking laughter shook her. Each peal of laughter ate away at the control she used to remain within Erebossa. Putting her in danger, for priests now joined the she-wolves and their entourage. They might summon agents of the False Ones, should they see her.

Subsiding, Amavand replied, «The creatures you saw guarding me came the first time I drank the nectar. You would have seen them, too, if you had drank. But She forbade it.»

Despite everything she’d seen, and everything he told her, Zephyra had held on to an increasingly frayed tether of hope for a rational explanation to emerge. Something that would reconcile her beliefs to her present-day experiences.

Three hours ago, she would have assumed the Goddess prevented her from drinking the nectar to protect her from both seeing the fellshades and being seen by them.

But now?

If the Seeker was false, what accounted for Nekdel and the woman in the violet gown?

If the Goddess was the Greatest One, why did Alia Ironwing’s curse overcome the men who drank of Her nectar?

If Her nectar was divine, why did rabisu spring from the blood of the one who drank it?

«You’re doubting Her, now, are you not?» Scorn laced his words. «How … disappointing, how common of you to be taken in by beauty. The Goddess warned me that you would look no further if you saw something you believed hideous, repulsive. Hiding the nectar from you protected you from this failing.»

«For my benefit, Lord Protector? Should I drink it now, then, to prove my faith?»

The scorn twisting his features vanished. «Do not drink it, Zephyra. If you take it, you are no good to Her, and all I’ve done will be for nothing. I don’t want that for you. Forgive me…forgive me, my one-time daughter. Take my key, and if you ever loved me, you will use it. I beg of you…»

A chill rippled through her, beyond her bones and into her soul.

The shadows coalesced into shrouded figures. Six of them swirled about Amavand’s body. Every so often she glimpsed their wasted flesh, whenever one of them chanced to look her way. Her skin crawled, but this time she did not intervene when they crowded Amavand. After all, he mocked her revulsion as childish, foolish.

Oddly, his chin quivered as the wraiths closed in on him. Did he not enjoy the sight of them, after all? Then he looked past them, fixing his gaze on her. No matter how closely the wraiths crowded him, his eyes never left her face.

Then, all at once, their light extinguished.

Anticipation made her freeze. In the living world their connection was now severed. But in Erebossa …

In three heartbeats, Amavand’s spirit rose from his body. In his spirit form his body assumed the appearance of a young man in his prime. Whole, with his hands attached, and his skin untouched by death. He held up his hands, examining them. Slowly, the corners of his lips turned up. Then he full on smiled, triumphant.

The wraiths pounced, trapping his spirit within their midst. Elation turned to dismay and terror, as Amavand’s spectral form dissolved. So also dissolved the wraiths, as they swirled once more into a tide of shadows, sweeping from the room and away from her sight.

Time stopped for Zephyra. From far away screams and shouts reached her, but she couldn’t take it in.

The mysterious prophet spoke the truth, after all. She whom Amavand declared an enemy, to himself and the Greatest One.

Their enemy told her the truth. The man she believed to be her father lied to her. His mentor lied to her, and their goddess lied to her. Liars, all of them.

What did it mean, that only her enemy had dealt honestly with her? What was more, the prophet, an enemy of the Greatest One, had accurately foretold the future. True prophecies did not come from followers of the Seeker, according to Amavand’s teachings. But so far two separate prophets of the Seeker had foretold the future with devastating accuracy.

How could they do that, as servants of a False One?

But then, who was false, really? In Amavand’s memories she was twelve years old when his men plucked her from the sea. Making a lie of her memories of a childhood with him. His story about why she couldn’t remember much about her twelfth year? Also a lie. Did the dryads and khrestai really slaughter everyone in the palace? Did they really enchanted the city so that no one remembered their actions?

Her eyes strayed to the withered stumps at the ends of Amavand’s forearms. On his chest someone placed his severed hands. Shriveled, blackened, his hands emphasized his unnatural decay. Rivulets of a foul liquid leaked from his hands and ran down his once-magnificent breastplate. Corroding it. No doubt much worse happened to his body out of sight, inside his armor.

And to think, all of this came from the salt the fire-hair she-wolf used to coat his stumps. Did she know this would happen?

Overcome, Zephyra started to turn away, when a glint of light caught her attention.

Something glittered by his neck.

The chain.

The chain from which hung the vial of nectar.

Here now, an opportunity presented itself. This next part would require special finesse. But still the others lingered in the room. The she-wolves—were they that? Were they what her father—what Amavand—had said they were? She was not what or who he’d said she was, why should things be different with them?

The foreign women were clustered around someone who wore the armor of a soldier. Their voices floated to her, and again she felt as if she were seeing and hearing people who were underwater.

“They’re coming,” he was saying. “They’re already swarming the city. I’m not sure how long this temple will last.”

“This is the City of Magi,” said the fire-hair woman, sounding a trifle impatient. “Did you earn that name or not?”

They weren’t looking in Zephyra’s direction.

Now was her chance.

Quickly, Zephyra bent down. She focused her will on her hand, allowing it to enter the corporeal world again. First she took his seal ring, the key to many doors in the palace. At her touch his ring finger crumbled. Flinching, she forced herself to press on, pulling at the fine gold chain he wore around his neck. Drawing out the blood vial, she yanked, freeing its chain from around his neck.

The chain snapped with an audible clink.

The Eitanite glanced over. Panic destroyed the last vestige of Zephyra’s control. All at once the reek of putrefaction assaulted her nose, the first warning of her re-entry into the realm of flesh-and-blood. With one arm she covered her mouth to hide her gagging.

The Eitanite gave a start, unmistakable proof she could see Zephyra. Their eyes locked. Zephyra coolly saluted her. Let the woman try and take her. Let her dare. If she caught hold of Zephyra, then Zephyra might be able to drag her into Erebossa and leave her there. Oh, let her dare!

Calm washed over her, as she began her transition back to Erebossa. The Eitanite surged forward. Fast though she was, determination made Zephyra faster. Just as the Eitanite leapt over the bier, Zephyra completed the transition, stepping through the wall as though it were not there.

In no time at all Zephyra found herself outside the temple. Back in Thuraia. The portal to the citadel would be close by, she remembered.

All she had to do—

Waves of lamia undulated forward, moving with an eerie grace on their snake tails. They clutched long, sharp swords in their wicked talons, and periodically let out a loud rattle that made the hair stand up on Zephyra’s neck.

Behind the lamia floated the alû, faceless fellshades with glowing green eyes.

Rabisu lurked in the shadows of the alû. Hiding, perhaps to ambush their victims, in the way of rabisu. They snarled and growled.

Seven manticores formed the rearguard. From their human mouths came deafening lion roars that echoed throughout the city. And perhaps beyond, even in the deserts outside of Elamis.

And Zephyra stood between them and Arenavachi’s Fane.

The macabre army paused.

Her heart stopped.

Glinting yellow eyes, cold white eyes, flaming red eyes; they all focused on her.

The creatures stilled as one, as if obeying an order she could not hear from a general she could not see.

Stay. She must not run. Except for the manticores, the creatures were arsh’atûm, and as such could clearly perceive her even if she shifted back into Erebossa. And they marched in the corporeal realm. In Erebossa or not, she would find no escape if the army of monsters chose to pursue her.

“Goddess,” she whispered.

Suddenly, they moved.

She opened her mouth to scream…

…and the sound died in her throat.

The creatures were bowing.

The lamias bent at the waist, raising and then lowering their swords in salute. A respectful salute; the snake women lowered their eyes deferentially.

Two waves formed in the small army, moving either left or right, until a path opened down the center of the battle lines.

Zephyra exhaled. Slowly her heart began to beat again, her pulse thundering in her veins.

She stepped forward.

The fiends did not move.

Obviously, they meant for her to walk the path they made for her. What would they do if she committed irrevocably to the path? Would they surround her and tear her apart?

Gritting her teeth, she took another step. Then another. On the third step she adopted her regal pace, the way she walked when she had thought herself the daughter of the Protector of Elamis. It was the safest choice, she judged. If she hurried it would excite their predatory instincts.

If she moved too slowly they might change their mind.

Or would they?

Again she felt pierced to her soul. Monsters paid obeisance to her. They saw her as one of them. Her eyes stung, but she refused to let the tears fall.

When she came through the end of the path, she let out a subtle exhale. Without looking she knew the creatures had turned to watch her progress. And so they did. The path behind her closed, and the monsters clustered together. Keeping their eyes on her.

Steeling herself, she looked over her shoulder. In answer the infernal army again saluted her.

She sped forward, willing herself to reach the citadel, and found herself on the grounds, just as she wished. Any other time she would have been impressed with herself for teleporting. Now, however, it was all she could do to keep herself together.

Below the citadel the Erebossi had reformed their battle lines, and resumed their march to the fane of Arenavachi.

A small cry escaped Zephyra’s lips. The tower wasn’t supposed to fall like this.

Once more she passed between, this time entering the great hall. Ignoring the sobbing courtiers, she let instinct guide her to her quarry. A cacophony of voices assaulted her ears when she entered the throne room. Artostes stood in the midst of it all, only a few feet from the throne.

A mirthless smile touched her lips; apparently even the magister did not have the gall to sit on the throne.

Her smile vanished as Artostes blurred.

At first he was Artostes. But in a beat of her heart he became grotesque, inhuman, and emitted a stifling, sulfurous stench. Grief came over her, as her last vestige of hope slipped away.

The inner circle screamed madly, but not because they could see Artostes’ true appearance. That joy was for herself, the fruits of her Shadow sight.

No, the lackeys were arguing. Listening to them revealed the existence of two emerging factions. Interestingly, Artostes was trying to unite them both, but one faction believed he was correct, the others thought he was hasty.

“Did you even wait for the Handmaiden?” one of them demanded.

Zephyra paused. The cold, deep pit in her stomach had only grown larger.

So Artostes took it upon himself to summon the horde slithering its way through the city? Well it fit, didn’t it? Considering what she now knew of him.

She could not pretend that the horde had not bowed down to her as if she were their mistress.

A tear slid down her cheek. She brushed it away, then flung herself into the throne. She straightened, allowing the hem of her gown to cover her feet before she again entered the realm of flesh and blood.

One of the men jumped, then hastily dropped to his knees. Several others, the ones who were looking in her direction, were quick to follow suit.

Artostes stood gaping, his brow furrowed as he glanced at them. Then he turned, and his eyes widened when he took her in. He looked her over, his eyes roving restlessly as he glanced from her to the tightly shut door of the throne room and back to her again. He, too, knelt, as soon as he realized he was the only one standing.

Did he smell it on her? She wondered. Did he smell the scent of death, decay, and brimstone? Did he know she had walked through Erebossa to get to him?

Her voice was cold when she spoke.

“Artostes.”