Epilogues

— A Dwelling in Sand Castle —

"I apologize for any trouble my son has caused you." The massive spear of Broken Ode made his hands into upturned palms, fingers touching, a sign of opening himself to another. "I can't offer any excuse for him. He's always been this way, and I've never known how to make him better. I'll take him home right away."

"Is that why you think you were called here?" Wise Yalda's words filled the spear with confusion. The Maul and Doyenne of Pashtuk had called him to a place in Pashtuk's arc of the city, to meet with them and Gohar. Parsa was there, too, sitting quietly to one side. Gohar frowned at him, as he always did whenever Parsa was the subject of conversation.

Normally, this was the moment when Parsa would interrupt and say something like, "See? He's always this way." Today he was mercifully silent.

Gohar spoke. "Parsa will not return to Broken Ode. Pashtuk wants him, and Parsa has agreed to join their garden." The maul motioned to Parsa, who removed his woven belt, the belt handed down by his father, folded it, and placed it before him.

Parsa's father was filled with dread. These people didn't know the boy, how weak and cowardly he was, how irresponsible. What could he do that made him worth keeping? Sooner or later, they would send him back, and this incident would become a whole new source of shame.

"You can't leave, Parsa. I won't allow it."

"It doesn't matter what you allow, Father. I went into the desert of my own will and I never came back. I'm not your animal. You don't own me. It's my right to leave you. It's done." His father's expression darkened into impending violence. That used to cow the boy, but the young man only shook his head ruefully. "I'm the only person who stood with Darkmaw on equal ground and came out alive. Do you think you can scare me, after her?"

"You're just a coward who runs."

"You've got it wrong, father. I run because that's what I'm good at. I'm the fastest living thing. That turns out to be useful to some people."

Pashtuk's maul put a hand on Parsa's shoulder. "We have too many uses for him, in fact. We could use another like him, but Parsa here is one of a kind. He's popular with the young women, too. He'll make a happy match when the time comes."

"The fault is by your own hands, then." The massive hunter took the belt, intending to burn it at the first opportunity. He wouldn't pass a tainted object to his new apprentice. "You're welcome to him." He rose to leave lest his temper get the better of him.

Before he could fully exit the room, his maul's voice stalled him. "You've always had a blind spot," Gohar said to his back, "when it comes to your son. A hunter's virtues are not the only virtues that matter. Sometimes, they're even the wrong virtues. A spear who would be maul must learn this."

— Crusaders —

They had come through a burning desert, starvation, and death. Out of twelve hundred, so few remained. Ragged, wasting, they had wandered the desert while dragging their weapons behind them. Commander Urban had been the first to fall, and the only one to die by a weapon. The rest had fallen by the wayside, felled by exhaustion or thirst. There was little to sustain such a force in this desolate environment. Wherever they found plants that held water, they were cut down and stripped bare. Wherever they found a patch of tiny wild potatoes, they dug up the whole area. If someone wanted to know where they were, they could follow the trail of wrecked vegetation and dead Gallians.

Four score of them had survived the sacred ordeal. Olyon's Gold, they were calling themselves when they had the moisture to talk. And they had reached their target at last: a high bluff with an earthen boundary on the southern side. It wasn't much of a defense: anyone could walk over it. They snuck up on their target during the night and then, by silent agreement, stormed up the earthwork hill before the sun rose. They made it about halfway up before exhaustion slowed them. By the time they reached the top they were on their hands and knees, gasping for air. In their weakened state, the berm might as well have been a mountain.

Their faith and fortitude preserved them, and they reached the top to gaze down at a field of barley and sorghum. Beyond the field were trees, and they could smell water on the breeze. There was food, just out of reach! All thoughts of holy conquest were forgotten as they cheered their great discovery in wheezing voices. After weeks of burning and starving, they would eat under cool eaves and drink water from deep wells! A parched cheer rose from their cracked lips.

Fighters suddenly appeared, not equal to their numbers but far exceeding them in strength. These instant enemies didn't bother to draw weapons but shoved them back callously. They tumbled down the embankment until they hit the bottom.

For most of the crusaders, that was the end. A precious few were made of stronger stuff. They crawled on hands and knees to reach the top again, only to be toppled down. Not a single one of them was strong enough to make a third attempt.

They wept the bitter tears of men who had started with grand hopes and then suffered for nothing. The prelate told them they were chosen men of Olyon, that they'd find victory against the heretics, and no earthly force could overcome them. What was more earthly than thirst and starvation? Than this mound of dirt they lacked the strength to climb? Or the armored fighters at its crest? One glimpse of paradise. That was all they'd gained, only to be thrown down like chaff at a threshing. They never had a chance.

There was quiet talk among the defenders. "I know we're supposed to kill most of them, but look at them. I just can't."

"I know what you mean. I'm going with the tenets on this one. Call their ambassador over here, and let's work something out."

A Gallian ambassador, here? Something big had changed. The world shifted under them, and the crusaders prepared themselves to beg for mercy.

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

— Harrence —

For about an hour every day, Harrence took a seat in the rector's office and drew. The ancient installation filled most of the plateau's interior and all of it had to be explored. The majority was machinery, with scant living spaces near the top. Here and there, Brynn and Yara found text for him to copy down. Harrence duly copied it and then had Phillip translate it during their occasional sessions in his imaginary forest.

Most of the text was warnings (Warning: Hot Steam) or directions (Control Center). Bit by bit, Nexus was acquiring a dictionary of words. Not only did Phillip claim to read the ancient language, he could speak it! That raised several questions which the hierarch refused to answer. "Later," was all he'd say, "focus on your training for now. Even these maps are less important than mastering your basics. There's important work ahead."

— Phillip and Anisca —

"Good morning, Your Holiness." Anisca curtsied deeply when Phillip entered the tiny courtyard.

"Not funny, Anisca. Now I'll have to rush back and forth between here and Red Tower for all the ceremonies. Did you know they elected me in secret? The ink isn't even dry on the Articles, and they hold a secret election. "

Anisca rose, smiling pleasantly. This was one of her 'I'm having fun' faces. "There is nothing in the Articles requiring the candidates to be present. All the priests and practitioners voted, so it was hardly a secret. There was an abstention, a most curious one at that. Someone forgot to attend, so your election wasn't quite unanimous. Nothing's perfect, I suppose."

"This courtyard might be perfect." Taylor took in the cheery fountain, trees draped with scented flowers, and tiled mosaic walls designed to mimic windows looking out on scenes from distant environs: snowcapped mountains, an ocean, jungle, and woodlands. As (soon to be) Pasha and his doyenne, they had a group of buildings at their disposal for housing staff and offices. Taken together, the compound was practically a palace. It was dotted with tiny, elegant spaces like the fountain square. It was sheer luck that Darkmaw hadn't flattened the whole block.

"It's too small," judged Anisca. They took seats at a round table with only two chairs and a porcelain tea set filled with Milo's custom blends, an aged black flavored with garden fruits and spices. Anisca had taken a liking to the blend.

"I like it for our little meetings," he argued. "These murals, especially."

"Ignore them. I have a gift for you. Riculta has had some early success with our research." Anisca handed over a stack of boards (they were still conserving paper), and Taylor spent several minutes going through them, turning over each one with a gentle clack, clack, clack. Afterward, he remained silent, thinking.

"Lavradio's staple crops mostly wither under increased spirit, but nearly all Calique crops thrive. That can't be an accident. The doyennes know."

"That's my thought, too." Anisca was trying to nod and sip tea at the same time. "And some plants monstrify!"

"I noticed. Isn't it fantastic? I can use that. This is fascinating stuff. As it happens, I, too, bring gifts. I wanted to show some appreciation." He signaled Mila, who placed a wooden box in front of the princess, large enough to hold a hat. It was a simple thing of polished blonde wood without adornment, easy to overlook. Anisca lifted the lid and discovered it was hinged to fold out into three layers of trays, each one packed with a different color of pearls: every pearl was perfectly round and identical in size, with a luster that would show well against anything worn by a queen. They were as perfect as Taylor's skill could make them. Anisca didn't need to know that particular detail: The fact that he could craft perfect gems from cheap materials was known within the confines of Nexus, but the pearls were new.

Anisca stared at the little orbs for so long Taylor began to worry she didn't like them.

"Mila, I suspect the doyenne doesn't like her gift," he teased. "Maybe we should remove it and think of something else."

"That won't be necessary," Anisca said imperiously, closing the lid so the trays restacked. "I will accept your humble offering. For future reference, you should hint to the recipient when the contents are valuable. Plate the box in silver, perhaps. Or make it from solid silver and then plate it in gold. Otherwise, the gift jumps out at you. It's very startling."

"Seriously, if you don't like them I can take them back and offer something else."

"It's too late for giver's remorse," she said in a rush. She shook her head and her hair ornaments rang softly. She closed the box and pulled it decisively towards her side of the table. "I'm keeping these. Thank you."

"I'm glad you like them. Here's the other thing we talked about." He handed over another much smaller box of darker wood with a palm tree inlaid on the top, hinged to open wide. Inside was an ear cuff, intricately tooled from silver. Orange specks of tiny gemstones winked back at Anisca. "There's a storage stone hidden in the box. If the link is stored there overnight, it'll recharge. Here's the matching one. There's no battery, so don't mix up the boxes." Taylor handed over a second jewelry box containing an identical link. It lacked the decoration of the first, to make them easy to distinguish.

"Thank you for trusting me with this," she said with rare earnestness, "and the royal family is grateful too. They want to make amends for the former king's actions."

"Your mother lending us one of her … assets like this is no small thing."

The asset in question was one of the dowager queen's ladies-in-waiting: her spies and, sometimes, assassins. All Taylor was supposed to know was she would be placed in Kashmar society and report directly to Anisca, who would then relay her information to Taylor. There were trust issues here, on all sides. The royals couldn't have a foreign power directly controlling one of their spies, and wouldn't take the risk he'd compromise her lightly. Meanwhile, Taylor would have his own resources in Kashmar who could verify at least some of the information provided.

Trust between powers was provisional and carefully bounded.

"Now I'd like your opinion on something. Do you remember that letter we worked on the other day with Brother Mika?"

"Do you mean the manifesto that rebukes the church and challenges the authority of Enclave?"

"I still think of it as a letter."

"You're printing a thousand copies, spreading them all over Tenobre, and reading it aloud on the sounding board. It will go down in history as The Nexus Manifesto."

"An open letter, then. This morning, I finished engraving it on this."

Milo entered, bearing a tower shield, slightly convex, of a bright scarlet hue with silver lettering on it. The letters seemed to float beneath the surface, untouchable, radiating a gentle glow. The writing was surmounted by Nexus's symbol: a lozenge encompassing four stars.

The princess rose and examined the shield, read the declaration, ran her fingers over the letters and around the edges. She took the shield in hand and hefted it.

"It's exceptionally light. Is this Darkmaw shell?"

"Mmmm. Her shell is made of translucent layers. Thin it out to fewer layers, a very difficult feat, I might add, and you get this great color. The writing is sandwiched between layers so it can't be removed, and the whole thing is reforged with the arts to be as unbreakable as when she was alive. Not even I could reshape it without taking extreme measures. I'm going to send this to Enclave Leadership. So, what do you think?"

Her voice was cautious. "I think you're sending them an infuriating message, written on a surface they can't destroy, made from the monster they failed to kill. You're rubbing their faces in it. They won't just fund Kashmar's invasion, they'll send a second army."

Taylor was pleased with her assessment. "Then the effort wasn't wasted."

Just as they rose, the gate horns blew: a caravan had been sighted, the very first since Darkmaw. It was being run by Laura Sabrosa and had come from Lavradio's capital via Ullidia and Red Tower. All the Black Sanctuary tools and personnel should be on board, along with whatever paper and charcoal they didn't drop at Red Tower. It also meant …

"Gonzo!" Taylor grinned. It had been forever since he'd seen his friend, and there was a pile of crazy ideas they needed to work on. Together, they were about to change everything.