“…ilver Suns repor…

…itical informa… …reat to Telluri… …ssible extin… level event… …mmediate action…

…nding by… …esponse… …ease confirm rec…”

— Auditory record of non-Synaptic transmission (undated Last Era, redacted source) in Last Era city of Strathlic, unearthed 1886 CE

----

Acerbia

Standing Blooming 24, 1885 CE

Vanulfr raised his head up and sniffed the air. Dorsin leaned down and patted the jungle-wolf’s great head. “It has been a long, long time since you smelled pine, hasn’t it?”

Acerbia stretched out before the procession, a warren of wide streets and boxy hexagonal buildings grasping toward the sky. Dorsin could gaze a full mile down the thoroughfare without a single pile of rubble blocking his view. He had to give the Nxtlu credit for their efficiency.

Of course, efficiency was not the greatest virtue. The slave-crews had done a marvelous job clearing the streets in only three weeks, it was true, but Gens Nxtlu would never understand the import of the human factor. And how could they? When some men were gods and others were less than insects, what could it mean to be a person?

No. It was the in nature of Gens Nethress to treat men as men and women as women. It was in the nature of Gens Nethress to set its SOPHIAS-bound architects working overtime designing new building seeds to replace the homes and offices that had been lost in the war. It was in the nature of Gens Nethress to heal the crevices in the ground before they became new Chasms entirely. It was in the nature of Gens Nethress to repair the mycoprotein vats and restore the supply lines to the ocean so that the people of this Duchy could be fed. And thanks to the nature of Gens Nethress, soon the disenfranchised in the Chasm would ascend back into the light.

True, there had been conflict between the work crews over this past month, but thankfully there had been no bloodshed. It was possible, perhaps even probable, that Eztli Generosus Nxtlu meant to keep her oath. What would that mean for Gens Nethress?

What would that mean for Dorsin?

Vanulfr pawed at the sparse white mist drifting low along the streets. Tvorh’s mother, good woman that she was, made sure to keep the city completely sterilized. The Nethress-slaying genophage would find no purchase in Acerbia. Being trapped in the city and able to make only short forays out into the wider world was not ideal for the Generosi of Nethress, but it was better than death.

“Almost ready,” Dorsin whispered into his jungle-wolf’s ear. Almost. But not quite. The sun had still not touched the top of the mountains. Dorsin wheeled the wolf out of the line. He felt the need to inspect the parade one final time. With the buildings of Acerbia behind and the pine forest before, Vanulfr padded down the line, Piotr marching alongside him.

So many places of honor were empty. Lenaa nodded as he passed by, and Dorsin thought of his relatives Alvarin, Romulus, Sigurd, and Alfr, brought low by the genophage. He thought of Hegor, taken by flak; his body had tumbled from his lungship during the first sortie. He considered Virtuus, crushed beneath the rubble. And Pryan, of whom they had still not heard a word.

And Princeps Gerart, his father not by blood but by action, dead by Dorsin’s own hand. Was the cost worth it?

Yes. There were some things more important than life itself.

Senrii gave Dorsin the thumbs-up as he passed, and he couldn’t help but smile. Smiling; such a strange feeling for him. He was unused to it. The cautious glance his daughter gave to Piotr, looking away before he could meet her eyes, only amused Dorsin all the more.

He had been young once himself, after all.

And as if in answer to this thought, the flower of his youth appeared. Rosabella, ravishing in a backless red gown, trotted her scarlet jungle wolf forward to greet him. She was as lovely as she had been the first night he laid eyes on her; the horrors of her torture appeared to have melted away, leaving behind only ruddy cheeks and curling sunburst hair and the deep decolletage she wore so well. Dorsin kissed her hand. “You are a sight to see, Ambassatrix.”

“And you are as handsome as always, Dux.” She turned about and rode alongside him as he inspected the line. “Are you prepared for the festivities?”

“I was always a warrior more than a celebrant.”

“I know. Why do you think I chose you? You provided me with the one thing I was never able to provide to myself. I have always been a graver danger with a sword to myself than to my foes.”

“I think I should like to see that. Rosabella on the battlefield, carving a path through her enemies.”

“My Erus indulges in fantasy? That is not like you, Dux Dorsin.” She leaned in and whispered, “At least, not recently.”

“Be silent, woman.”

“You know, Dux, that that is the one command of yours that I shall never be able to fulfill. Look.” She pointed into the line at a carriage yoked to two jungle wolves. Tvorh, covered from heel to chin in formal Nethress military furs, sat stone still beside two well-behaved sisters. “See how well they wear the richest garments? You would never know their origins. Were they a painting, I would be proud to hang it in my chambers.”

“Only the bandanna is out of place.”

“Not as out of place as his face would appear without the bandanna. Aside from which fact, I believe he appreciates its origin.”

“The Sodalite girl? Your Acolyte?”

“Aoife.” Rosabella smiled. “And I think she may appreciate his wearing it.”

A dark cloud intruded on the sunlight of Dorsin’s thoughts. He sighed and shook his head. “That boy will be a complicated matter to handle.”

“Why?”

“He completed the Bond in only one treatment.”

“Ah. Every Generosus will want him wed to his daughter. Or at least studded to her.” Rosabella winked.

That was not the Nethress way. “How promising is Aoife?”

“We do not test the Acolytes until they come of age. A SOPHIOS is not necessary for good service to the Sodality. I will keep you informed as to her suitability as a bride.”

Bilr was playing with her rat. The act was out of place in such a procession, but all things considered, Dorsin was glad for it. Senrii’s decency in acquiring another for her from the Libraratory would pay off. Did the girl think it was the same one that she had lost? Or did she know that Senrii had stolen the original and acquired a new one? No matter. What was done was done, and Senrii was alive because of the vacuum-sealing STIGMOS the creature had provided.

They passed by Ferghall’s family; Dorsin recognized them precisely by not recognizing them. The woman had to be Candice; her children, even Aoife the Sodalite Acolyte, rode alongside her in the carriage. It was good of Rosabella to allow the girl this freedom.

Everything was in order; everyone was here, except for one. And she would be coming soon enough. Dorsin bowed to Rosabella and urged Vanulfr back to his place at the front of the parade.

“Piotr,” Dorsin said, “give the signal.”

Piotr murmured a few words into his shortsphere. The ground rumbled and shook, and the turrets— the same turrets, controlled by the Last Era Tool deep beneath the ground, that had risen against Gens Nethress during its assault— rose out of the stone at the edge of the city. They turned, aimed outward toward the forest, and dry-shot, the synchronized crack reverberating through the streets, against the mountains, and into the wilderness.

Alvarin.

Crack. Romulus.

Crack. Sigurd.

Crack. Alfr. 

Crack. Hegor.

Crack. Virtuus.

Crack. Pryan.

Crack.

Father.

Dorsin urged Vanulfr into the city, and the smell of wild pine fell away, replaced by the scent of asphalt and humanity. The people lining the street fell to their knees as he approached and rose, cheering, as he passed. So much love, simply for driving out the Nxtlu. Dorsin hoped to the fathers of his fathers that he would be able to prove himself worthy of it. Today, they both honored and feared what he had done. He would show them, by word and by deed, today, tomorrow, and forever, that Gens Nethress was open welcoming of all men and women of honor.

In its weakened state, Gens Nethress would need alliance with such.

The procession made its way down the streets. Small homes gave way to towering offices; cracks in the road, the remnants of the Xipe Totec cannon’s emergence, became more numerous as they approached the center of the city. They marched until the buildings gave way around them to a perfectly manicured lawn. The Palace of Governance lay before them, and the enormous cannon dominated the skyline beyond it. Ductrix Eztli awaited among the obsidian and marble columns on the half-moon steps of the portico with her honor guard, who were flying the Nxtlu emblem.

Dorsin rode Vanulfr straight up to the steps and dismounted, well aware that he was now acting on behalf of his Gens in front of all Tellus. The Sodality would be watching; so would Gens Poramir. Gens Takahashi would record this moment for posterity for those Gentes that could not be present. The House of the Dragon and Gens Utulo had sent their own emissaries to join in the victory procession. They, too, would bear witness to what happened here today, as would minor Gentes and the common folk.

And Gens Nxtlu, whose dark envoy stood motionless at the top of the steps, awaiting Dorsin. Now, as he mounted these steps alone and walked amongst those Blooddrinkers, he would discover what Eztli’s word was worth.

“Dux Dorsin,” she said as he approached. “Are you prepared to receive Acerbia peacefully from the hands of Gens Nxtlu?”

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He did not reply until he stood before her. “I am.”

Immediately, the Blooddrinkers began to move, marching down the steps. The doors of the Palace flung open, and bald slaves and Bound alike poured out around Dorsin, streaming out of the building around him and down onto the lawn.

“I empty the city of all that Gens Nxtlu owns.” Eztli inclined her head slightly. “Guard her well.” She turned to follow after her guard.

“Stay,” Dorsin said. “For the feast.”

“I would rather not, Dux. And I suspect that you would rather I not.”

“I would rather you see that the wolf can cease growling. We are not friends, Ductrix, but we need not be at one another’s throats. You were right about this.”

Eztli furrowed her brow, then nodded. “Then I will accept your gracious invitation, Dux.”

As she took the steps down to the lawn, Dorsin turned and surveyed the gathering. There were so many here; not simply the parade, but all of the citizens who had lined the streets, it seemed, had followed them onto the lawn to watch the ceremonies. And Dorsin was about to speak indelibly for all his brothers and sisters.

“Cousins and family,” he called, enhancing his voice so that it boomed over the assembly. “My fellow Generosi. Honorable members of the Sodality of the Metagenic Apotheosis. Loyal citizens and subjects, hear me well.

“My father, Princeps of Gens Nethress, was a good man and a wise one. He passed from my life too soon, and I would give up all the riches of my Gens to have him back. But this is an impossibility; all I can do is to try to fulfill his wise wishes.

“Before he died, my father gave me a charge: see to my family. Lenaa. Would you read the final testament of our father?”

Ductrix Lenaa stepped forward, a document sealed with Gerart’s own seal in her hand. She came up the steps beside Dorsin, broke the seal, and unfurled it.

“The Testament of Magus Princeps Gerart Generosus Ortus Nethress,” she announced, her voice ringing clearly. “By my own hand do I set this down, personally and without compulsion.

“The Principality of Gens Nethress I leave to my son, Magus Dorsin Generosus Ortus Nethress. He alone shall determine the disposition of all of its resources. My will departed with my breath; let the ashes of my body do the same. If I have guided this family well, then you need keep only my memory alive; if ill, then not even that, and may I be blessedly forgotten. Let this final will be enacted with all due haste upon my death.” Lenaa rolled the scroll back up and fell to one knee. “Hail, Princeps!”

There was silence for a moment. Then the rest of the crowd, Gens Nethress and commoners alike, did likewise. The cry of “Hail, Princeps!” shattered the air.

Dorsin gazed toward the edge of the lawn, where his servants had been hard at work building a pyre since the moment they arrived. “Arise. Turn, and hail the body of the man who truly deserves your loyalty!” Dorsin went to one knee and bowed his head. “Hail, Princeps!” 

Though he was not watching, he could feel them light the pyre. Was it his father’s spirit, free at last from his ravaged body as the flames consumed it, that told him? No; that thought was foolish, superstitious. Yet all the same, he did know the moment.

Dorsin rose. “By your leave, brothers and sisters, I now claim the title of Magus Princeps Dorsin Generosus Ortus Nethress. Are there any among you who challenge my worthiness?”

No one spoke.

“Very well. Acerbia has seen much destruction in recent days. I stand here to tell you, however, that she is on the cusp of a new age. Let our offering this evening be proof of the eternal good will of Gens Nethress toward all the good and honest of mankind.”

“Hail, Princeps!” the crowd shouted.

“I would honor my brothers in arms. Tvorh, Ortus Acerbia, step forward, and bring your sisters.”

“Our parents’ names are Ysur and Meghan!” a small voice called from the middle of the crowd, which parted just in time to reveal the blind boy leaning over his sister, shushing her. A ripple of nervous laughter ran through the assembly.

Dorsin smiled. “Tvorh, Ortus Ysur et Meghan, then. These are your sisters?”

Tvorh nodded and wriggled his hand, still clamped over the mouth of the girl standing at his left. Her eyes goggled as the motion jiggled her head. “My sister Hrega, Princeps.” He indicated the child at his other side. “And Bilr.”

“Both are in good health, I take it?”

“Fine health, Princeps. Thanks for being so generous.”

“May Gens Nethress always be known for its generosity. Step forward, Tvorh Ortus Ysur et Meghan.”

Tvorh and his sisters climbed the steps.

“Tvorh Ortus Ysur et Meghan, I accept you and yours into Gens Nethress and for your proof of valor name you Magus Tvorh Generosus Nethress Ortus Ysur et Meghan. Your sisters likewise shall be known by the epithet Generosus Nethress Ortus Ysur et Meghan. Stream to river, may your blood broaden our own.”

“Thank you. Uh, Erus.” Tvorh bowed and backed down the steps.

“Let the family of Ferghall Ortus Verdantia step forward,” Dorsin declared.

Candice and her children, including Aoife, came through the crowd to the front of the steps. Dorsin toward himself. “Come forward, Candice.”

“I’m far enough forward, thank you very much.”

Dorsin held up a hand to head off the murmurs before they began. “Well enough, Candice. You have received my missive.”

“From your daughter, Maga Senrii. Yes.”

Dorsin raised his voice. “Then you know of the valor of your husband, Ferghall, who stood bravely against a mad Dux and powerful Magus of Gens Nxtlu, saving his daughter’s life and Gens Nethress through the sacrifice of his own. For that same valor, it is my honor to name you and your family as Tutelae of Gens Nethress. Be known henceforth as Candice Tutela Nethress Ortus Verdantia. Stream to river, may your blood broaden our own.”

Candice nodded wordlessly and faded back into the crowd.

“And where is my daughter?”

“Over here, dad.” Senrii waved from the bottom of the stairs.

“Up.” Dorsin waited until she’d climbed the portico to stand next to him. “Senrii, I name you Maga Ductrix of Acerbia Senrii Generosus Ortus Nethress.”

“What?” Senrii sputtered, almost falling backward off the steps in surprise. “You can’t—!”

“I can and I will. Rule well, Ductrix. Piotr, please help my daughter into her seat. She looks a bit unsteady.”

“At once, Erus.” Piotr leapt forward and helped Senrii to one of a dozen artfully constructed obsidian seats arranged in a quarter-moon curve on the portico behind Dorsin and to the side.

Dorsin turned back to the crowd as Rosabella, her hair swaying in the light breeze, mounted the steps. “Ambassatrix,” he said.

“Erus, have we your permission to present to you your crown jewel?”

Dorsin felt his throat go dry. He nodded. Immediately, a white-veiled palanquin began to push through the crowd. Its bearers brought it up the steps and placed it before Dorsin. Rosabella tugged gently on a vine hanging from its upper frame, and the white veils fell away.

Golden locks framed the youthful visage with which Dorsin had first fallen in love. Oralie, rejuvenated and whole, stood before him in a dress of pure ivory. She blushed the blush of their wedding night upon seeing his slack-jawed stare.

“Dux,” Rosabella said, bringing him back into a formal frame of mind. She took Oralie’s hand and guided her up the steps to Dorsin. “I present to you the bride of your youth, Oralie. Whole of body, sound of mind, she emerged from the chrysalis upon the third interval. Love her well.” Rosabella vanished back into the crowd.

The genophage treatment in the Libraratory had removed the ravages of the cancer from Oralie as it had restored her genes to proper functioning, but the woman who stood before him now was something else entirely. “Oralie,” Dorsin whispered.

“My love.”

“I think I should like to kiss you.”

She smiled coyly. “I think your family would forgive you if you did.”

“And if not, to the Adonist Gehenn with them.” Dorsin took his wife’s face in his hands and kissed her, and though the crowd roared its approval, he could not hear it over the sound of his own pounding heart.

They drew apart at last. “Hear me,” Dorsin cried, still gazing into Oralie’s eyes. “Behold my wife, upon whom I bestow the title of Maga. Heed her words, for she is Maga Uxor Principis Ductrix of Lellonell Oralie Generosus Nethress Ortus La Table d’Or!” The sound of three shots fired in succession echoed across the city. Dorsin glanced at Piotr. The corners of the great man’s mouth curved upward.

Dorsin shook his head and turned back to his wife. “You are with me again.”

“I’m with you at last, Dorsin,” Oralie corrected, resting her head on his chest.

Dorsin put his hand against her head and drew her in. He could stand like this with her forever and die a content man. But there were others matters to which to attend. “Let the supplicants come forward,” he said.

As the last rays of light died, Dorsin addressed the requests of the people. A woman whose child had developed a pneumonic disease from the dust in the air during the assault begged him for succor; he saw to it that her son would be taken and treated. An old man, a commoner, requested a position within the household for his son. Dozens and dozens of supplicants asked for aid in restoring their buildings, or rebuilding their foundations, or otherwise reconstructing that which they had lost. One after another, Dorsin heard their requests; one after another, he dispatched his people to handle the matters.

“The hour of supplication is complete,” Piotr announced at last, when darkness had fallen and the glow of the lumins had risen.

Rosabella’s voice chimed through the air. “Not complete yet, Erus.” She glided through the crowd, the girl Aoife at her side.

“Erus—” Piotr began.

Dorsin held up a hand. “We will spare the time for one final supplication.” Rosabella curtseyed her thanks. “Who will make the request?” he asked.

“I, Erus,” Rosabella replied.

Oralie let out an amused sound. “My curiosity’s piqued,” she whispered in Dorsin’s ear.

Rosabella took the steps up and curtseyed again. “If it please you, Princeps,” she said. Then she knelt and leaned forward, bringing her face to the ground and putting her hands out beyond her head, toward Dorsin. Aoife knelt by her side and placed her ear near the ground next to Rosabella’s mouth.

“Rise, Ambassatrix, and tell me your request,” Dorsin said. But Rosabella did not rise, nor did she speak, but remained motionless in her prostrate position. “I would hear your supplication, Ambassatrix,” Dorsin repeated.

Rosabella did not move.

“What’s she doing?” Oralie murmured.

“The Eternal Petition,” Dorsin whispered back. In all his life, he had never seen one performed, and little surprise; in this degenerate day and age, to place one’s honor, or even one’s life, in the hands of another was dangerous.

He felt the minutes tick by, and with every moment, the gravity of the unknown request grew on him. Now, Rosabella had been down long enough that if he denied her request, it would strip her of her honor.

Minutes passed, yet she maintained her still, silent state on the ground.

Now, if he were to deny her, all General titles she might hold would be forfeit. He felt the weight of the moments growing as plainly as he could see his own wife’s beautiful face. But Rosabella did not move. 

The crowd shifted. The people began to murmur. Dorsin held up a hand to silence them.

Still Rosabella did not move.

And now — how long had it been? Almost an hour, Dorsin was certain — she had lain on the ground so long now that in order to deny her, he would have to behead her himself — 

Aoife stood up. “Erus, my Magistra has made her request known to me.”

Dorsin’s heart pounded in his chest, and he hoped to his fathers’ fathers that Rosabella would ask something that was in his power to provide. “Speak.”

“Ambassatrix Rosabella begs that you would permit Maga Ductrix Eztli Generosus Ortus Nxtlu to remain in Acerbia and to freely continue her research, and that of her family, in the Last Era ruins below. She asks that you would join hands with the Ductrix in jointly exploring the wonders of the Last Era and that you would behave freely and without suspicion toward one another in so doing.”

Oh, Rosabella. Did she know the cost of what she was asking?

“If it does not please my Dux to do so,” Aoife continued, “the Ambassatrix offers up her sacred honor and her own life as recompense for her foolish request.”

He couldn’t grant access to Eztli—

And he couldn’t kill Rosabella. Dorsin stared silently, fixed his gaze on the fluttering of one of her wavy red locks as it played on the wind against her bare back.

He couldn’t give Gens Nxtlu the Last Era. He had won it fairly.

Rosabella’s life hung in the balance.

They had tried to poison him and all his family.

He could not swing the sword that would end the life of a woman he loved.

How could she ask this of him? What had Eztli said to induce her to make such an insane request? He sought Eztli out in her crowd of Blooddrinkers. 

Her hand covered her mouth, her eyebrows climbed to the sky, her eyes were great white orbs. She saw Dorsin, noted his gaze, and he could read the truth in her: Eztli had had no idea.

“Maga Ductrix Eztli Generosus Ortus Nxtlu, come forward.” Dorsin saw her draw in a breath; she pulled herself to her full height and came to the foot of the steps.

“Ductrix, do you swear on your life that if I grant the Ambassatrix’s request, you will not take advantage of my generosity, but that you will return favor for favor and honor for honor? Do you swear on your life that you will not behave in a hostile manner toward Gens Nethress, nor provide your Gens with any information that they may use in a hostile manner toward Gens Nethress, nor in any way enable hostile action against Gens Nethress by way of this generosity, and that should your family call you to war against Gens Nethress, or should you decide yourself that the peace must end, you will depart from our lands and take no hostile action toward us for one month, to allow us time to prepare ourselves?”

Eztli came slowly up the steps and stood before Dorsin. A knife appeared in her hand; she held it up for inspection, then drew it across her arm. Blue blood dripped to the floor. “I swear it.”

His throat dry, his heart smashing his ribs, Dorsin said, “Rosabella, your request is granted.” Rosabella sat back gracefully onto her ankles. Dorsin turned to one of the servants. “Draw up the document immediately. Ductrix Eztli, let this be a sign of rapprochement between our families.”

“Agreed.”

“Good. Now, I have had enough of supplication for one evening. Let the festivities commence.”