The Gathering of Emissaries only happened once every Mascant year, and the topic of discussion this year was non-negotiable: now that news of the death of Talock, God of Crops, was spreading, they had to do something about his considerable estate.
And the matter of his Godhood.
“You and your follower-clans made sure he had no living heirs,” said Vallor, God of Ships. He was looking directly at Karmion while he spoke, hands pressed tight against the round table. It was built from sturdy stone, carved into the top of Mascant’s only visible mountain peak, but an Emissary could still crush it with a spare thought or an accidental flick. “At least, no one at the peak of Grand Admiral, who could be strong enough to accept the Godhood and join us.”
Karmion rose from his chair, carefully controlling his movements. He had to look regal and imperial at all times, even before this council of his own brothers and sisters—and a few nieces and nephews. There were fifteen of them, now, but most sat at the edges of the table, keeping their heads down.
“Vallor, you have reminded me of this for every meeting these past eighty years,” Karmion said, speaking slowly and keeping his voice controlled. Every intonation, every inflection, was intentional. “It was never a problem, and it will not be a problem now.”
“Not a problem?” Brannúl exclaimed. She rose from her chair abruptly, sending it skidding across the polished stone floor. Her spirit flared, and a gale of wind swirled around her for just a moment—fitting for the Goddess of Wind. “His Godhood is just…swirling around in the Stream, unclaimed and undecided. Anyone could snatch it up, and anyone could take it.” She paused for a few seconds, then whispered, “What if a Velaydian got ahold of it?”
“They won’t,” Karmion asserted. “We, and only we, the successors of the Streamfather, will control who claims it. There is no one in Velaydia powerful enough to take in a Godhood, and even if there was, they alone could not assert enough authority over the Stream to grant it.”
“The Mediator?” Vallor suggested. “They have her, now.”
Karmion turned his head to the left, where Nilsenir, God of Piracy, sat awfully silent—save for his hook hand scratching against the surface of the table. Karmion said, “Report, Nilsenir. Tell them how strong the Mediator is.”
The man was silent for a few moments, before finally saying, “She’s likely nearing the peak of Master. At her rate of advancement, she’ll be through the three stages of Lieutenant, and at Captain by the end of the year.”
“Captain—if she doesn’t get bottlenecked again,” said Brannúl. “When she reaches the tip of the Lieutenants, she’ll need more than just cycling techniques and elixirs to push through to the flag officers realm…she, and my own daughter, does not have the insight to make the leap.”
Brannúl’s own daughter—that had to be Phasoné.
“I question whether you are mentally fit for this sort of discussion, Wind,” said Vallor.
“I came to terms with what would happen to my son and daughter long ago,” she snapped. “Kill them outright, if you want, and cycle through the Mediators until it comes back to one of us.”
“That is a possibility,” said Karmion. “If we could guarantee who would become the Mediator next, and if the mortal soul inhabited would be at all favourable to our cause.”
“The odds are in our favour.”
“We don’t need odds!” Karmion said, purposefully raising his voice. The windows at the edge of the chamber rattled and shook, distorting his vision of the city outside. The sun set behind wood and stone skyscrapers, which towered over the Galactic Assembly—where they currently were meeting.
“We are Gods, and we will do as we please,” Karmion continued, keeping his voice softer. “We will not be bound by odds, nor a mortal king or a pitiful Mediator.”
“Yet you’re afraid to kill her,” said Pallis, Goddess of the Sun Cycle. She dipped her head respectfully, then slumped back into her seat. “Apologies, Elder Brother.”
“If any of you would like to lower yourselves and wipe that little orange-hair off the map, then be my guest,” Karmion said, fully anticipating how their response would go. For good measure, though, he added, “And watch how your followers disperse, how your strongholds crumble, how your sects dissolve. None will obey a God who thought that a street rat—who couldn’t cultivate up until a half-year ago—was a worthy opponent. We have empires to maintain. Me more than most.”
Vallor stayed silent for a few seconds afterwards, until he finally said, “Point taken.”
“Whatever we do, we must be subtle,” Karmion said. “With the dissolution of Talock’s estate, his Sanctuary will be a target of all seeking power.”
“What did you do to my son’s Sanctuary?” Brannúl demanded.
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“It was just this morning, actually.” Karmion reached up and adjusted his hat. The plume of suspended water sloshed around a little before settling. “I put out the decree: Harvest Sanctuary is available to anyone looking for advancement resources, or to plunder and rearrange the wealth of Talock. His refinement centers, his high-grade spirit grains, all of his arcane-attuned produce—it’s up for the taking.”
Brannúl’s face cycled through confusion, fear, and then to anger. “You—”
“It’s not yours to control. It’s mine.” Karmion crossed his arms and marched around the table to her. “The strong prevail: it’s universal law. His farmworld will be a crucible for the future’s best warriors. Those who can claim the Harvest Sanctuary’s resources are the ones who deserve them.”
Brannúl let out a sigh, which was enough to gust all of the scattered papers off the table.
“Remember, sister,” Karmion said. “Your following is…significantly diminished, as of late. It would be a great shame if the Order of Balance managed to assassinate you in your sleep, or if an unfortunate accident destroyed your ship while you were aboard.”
“No one would believe it,” she snapped.
“I’ve put many lies to the papers.” Karmion shrugged. “We are emperors, now, and you are my vassals. You’d better act like it.” He released a slight bit of the tether he kept around his core, unveiling a sliver of its weight.
It was stronger than all the other Emissaries gathered, and they would be able to tell that much. It was as close to holding a musket to their heads as he could get.
Vallor blinked a few times, trying—and failing—to look unfazed. “And what about Talock’s Godhood, then?”
“In six months’ time, I will hold a tournament,” Karmion said, marching back to his seat. “It should be about the same time as the Mascant solstice, and it will fall in line with the old Skyclash tournament.” He pulled out his chair and dropped himself back down. “Send your best children—but those not in line for your own Godhoods. The victor will have Talock’s authority and power, and they will ascend to join us.”
“If this is co-opting the Skyclash,” said Nolla, Goddess of the Season Cycle, “will anyone still be allowed to join?”
“Correct,” Karmion confirmed. “Assuming they meet the tournament qualification restrictions.”
“But that could put a Godhood outside the direct family!”
“And?” Karmion demanded. “If one wins the tournament, one is worthy enough to claim the title. I should welcome a little power and spine into our pantheon for a change.”
“How can we be certain you won’t tamper with it?” Nilsenir asked. “Ensure one of your own sons or daughters won, for one thing.” Fitting for the pirate to think of ways to tamper with the tournament.
“Because we will direct our authority and seal a soul pact right now,” Karmion stated. “And no matter what, whoever wins will receive the Godhood.”
“If anyone can enter, the Godhood could go to a Velaydian,” Brannúl warned. “You’d make my son and daughter’s sacrifices in vain?”
“The tournament will only be open to Captain-stage contestants or higher,” Karmion stated. “And currently, no one in Velaydia has such power.”
At that, Karmion couldn’t help but let a little bitterness seep into his voice. With how magically weak Velaydia was, they should have fallen by now. They should have fallen decades ago. But few god-heirs would ever lower themselves by travelling to the front lines and battling with mortals, and those who did weren’t strong enough to sway the war.
“And,” he continued, “if the Mediator is your concern, she will not be powerful enough in time to be eligible for the tournament—by Nilsenir’s estimates.”
Which, admittedly, wasn’t the best place to put his faith. But he had a half-year of leeway, and that would have to be plenty.
“Once we direct our authority and sign the soul pact, the Godhood will be sealed,” Karmion finished. “There will be no more troubles.”
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Karmion was the first of the Emissaries out of the meeting room, and, as planned, he met one of his children outside.
Larra had quickly become one of his favourites, and he hadn’t been shy about letting her know that. She had a singularly-focussed mind, and her performance had been successful enough to earn her a large portion of the advancement resources he could spare.
After all, she had personally assassinated a large portion of Talock’s heirs and scattered them to the wind. She was used to punching up above her weight—though there was little that was actually above her weight. She was nearly as tall as Karmion, and appeared in her mid-thirties. She had crafted a bulky form, perfect for smashing through most anything, and wore a heavy coat as if to prove it.
“I have a task for you,” Karmion told her. “Walk with me.”
They marched down along the hallways of the Galactic Assembly, skirting the main atrium where the Assemblymen met and discussed unimportant but necessary galactic policy—right now, so late in the evening, it was empty. No one would hear them talk.
“I need you to travel to Harvest Sanctuary,” he told her. “I am almost certain you will find the Mediator there. Bring her to me.”
“She’s a Master,” Larra said flatly.
“She will become a Third Lieutenant soon, as I understand it.” Karmion paused as they rounded a corner, just to make sure there were no guards or straggling Assemblymen who might hear the conversation. “And you’re a Captain. It should be no issue for you.”
“What about Nilsenir’s hunters?”
“By all accounts, they have failed me. But he’s welcome to keep trying; I won’t stop him if he manages to bring her to me on a silver platter.”
Larra didn’t say anything for a few moments. She adjusted her hat—a tricorn almost identical to Karmion’s—and then pulled on the tails of her coat. “If you command me, it will be done.”
“Your status will not be harmed by this,” Karmion said. “Unless, of course, you fail.”
“I won’t fail.”
“Others have said the exact same thing. Including other Captains. But you’re my master of hitting above your weight—so do what you’re best at. Win at whatever cost.”