Myrrir had stormed out of the church-pagoda on the bridge as soon as the God-heir had confronted him about his sword, and he hadn’t been back since.
Over the next few days, Myrrir’s physical body began to heal. His muscles were knitting back together, and everything stopped aching. He spent his days holed up inside the shed, or taking small walks across the valley with his assigned guard close behind.
Tye lingered at a distance, and often, Myrrir spotted the man standing side-by-side with the God-heir—Nasyme. Something had gotten into Tye, that much was certain. But at least he looked like he belonged in the Moro-ka village, with his robes and free-flowing long hair.
Myrrir, with his Stellacovan glass hair and fair skin…he couldn’t have fit in any less. Whenever he wandered around the village, the villagers stared at him. Mothers ushered their children inside at the sight, and horsemen scowled at him.
On the fourth evening since he arrived, he had found a trail up the side of the valley, a little higher than his shed. His guard followed him, maintaining his constant, oppressive slight distance.
Once he had a view of the entire village, Myrrir sat down in the grass beside the path, trying to ignore the guard’s long shadow.
Distant riders trotted to and fro. Footmen trained with spears, mastering precise jabs and lunges, and a spattering of musketeers trained in disorderly rows. They didn’t ever fire a shot—gunpowder was probably incredibly rare out here, and training with it would be a waste. Just beside them, a crowd of Moro-ka in-training always spent their evenings practicing. They trained with wooden Jai swords, swinging at the empty air for hours upon end.
It was dedication, at the very least, and he allowed himself to admire it—even if they didn’t have any magic or spiritual potential.
He shut his eyes in frustration. He hadn’t come in contact with any Stream water during his time in the mountains, either, and he was no better than them. A little tougher skin, maybe. A drop of Stream water, a drop of mana, and he’d annihilate them, but until then, he had nothing.
Gravel crunched beside him. Myrrir’s eyes shot open. On instinct, he reached for his hip (his sword was still gone) and tried to cycle his Arcara (his spirit did nothing).
But it was just Tye.
“What are you doing?” Myrrir snapped. “You brought me here on purpose? To your old homeworld, so you could get buddy-buddy with the people of this village? They captured us. Was that part of your plan, too?”
Tye silently sat down beside Myrrir, flicking his new olive-green robe out behind him. “I am trying to negotiate your release, Captain. Please do not make this worse than it has to be.”
“Negotiate?” Myrrir exclaimed in disbelief. As soon as he raised his voice, the guard took a step towards him, hand on the hilt of his sword. Tye raised a hand to him. The guard dipped his head and took a step back.
“Nasyme wanted to kill you as soon as you told him what happened to his grandson. I negotiated a less severe punishment—exile. Which doesn’t matter much to you; you never planned to return here, yes?” Tye paused, then said, “And no, this was not part of my plan. I only wanted to help you achieve what you wanted. I have never been to this village in my life.”
“Great. Wonderful. So…his grandson…?”
“The Hyovao’s old captain.”
“Ah.” Myrrir nodded. The Hyovao’s captain might have been a very minor God-heir, but he certainly hadn’t gotten powerful enough to stop himself from aging—or to defeat Myrrir. But Nasyme had gotten to Captain, which was enough to extend his life a long while, and make him appear younger than many of his children.
“What am I waiting for, then?” Myrrir asked. “I’ll tell him what he wants to know, then leave.”
“There is a mild problem. One of the bluecoats in the convoy escaped, and he went telling stories about a powerful God-heir running rogue right under their noses. Whether it was you or Nasyme he was worried about doesn’t matter. They mustered five First Lieutenant stage God-heirs from the surrounding sectors, which was the best they could gather given the circumstances. These God-heirs are entirely loyal to the Elderworlds and Karmion.”
Myrrir shut his eyes and groaned. “We go back to the port, they find us. Either they know it's me and attack—I’ve failed enough times—or they think I’m the rogue God-heir and attack.”
“You can’t fend off five at once, not in your state.”
“I know.”
“At least something’s getting through your thick skull.”
Myrrir crossed his arms, then glanced warily up at the guard. But it didn’t seem like the guard spoke much of the Galactic common tongue. He was probably safe. “The Elderworld army and Commander Neule are going to attack this place in a month. They’ll take their God-heirs with them, and we’ll escape in the chaos.”
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Tye nodded, and smiled as though he was happy Myrrir was finally catching on. “If you tell Nasyme what he wants right away, and linger until the battle, they will be suspicious. I hate to say this, but you must be uncooperative.”
Myrrir scrunched his lips together and sighed. “I’m good at that.”
“Very much so, Captain,” Tye said. “But while you are waiting, you should make the best use of your time. You have a spirit to repair.”
“How?”
“Your channels are damaged, yes?” Tye asked.
“Yes.”
“The spirit, soul, and body are all one system. Your soul doesn’t need mana any more than your base muscles do.”
“How does that help? My soul and body aren't having problems.”
“Your channels can’t fix the damage done to them unless everything else is fixed, too. Everything is intertwined. I don’t imagine your spirit will be willing to start healing if your soul is still aching.”
“My soul is fine.”
Tye made a skeptical face, then inched away. “Just…remember this conversation, yes?”
“Yes, Tye, I’ll remember it.”
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Every morning after, Myrrir’s guard summoned him to the pagoda bridge, where Nasyme always awaited him.
“Tell me the story of my grandson,” Nasyme always commanded. “For he was dear to me.”
“What makes you think I know?” Myrrir tried. It didn’t work. He had carried the grandson’s sword. “Why do you care so much?” Nope, didn’t work either. “I hear he wasn’t very nice. Do you still want to know?” Yes, Nasyme still wanted to know, no matter what horrible acts his grandson had committed.
Nasyme resorted to asking more subtle questions to Myrrir: “What was it like growing up as the favoured son of a God? It must have been rewarding; it took me four hundred years to reach captain, and I hear you did it in around half that…”
“Two-hundred and fifty.”
“How often did your father visit you? Before the war began and the Gods descended, I mean.”
“Before? A few times.” Nilsenir only ventured down to the mortal realm once every few years, as the previous Mediators permitted.
“What are the extents of the authority of Piracy? It must be broad…”
“There are many Paths.” Gunpowder was only one, though most of Nilsenir’s children had some control over it.
“Do your injuries extend to your mouth as well?”
That, Myrrir figured, was a joke. He answered, “My betters taught me decorum.”
Nasyme rolled his eyes. “I would offer wisdom, but I imagine your ears are closed to it.”
“The wisdom of God-heirs doesn’t count for much.”
At that, Nasyme snorted.
“You included,” Myrrir continued. “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish with your little rebellion, but today, or in a decade, the Elderworlds will crush you. It is the only way Karmion deals. Well, now he knows that there’s a God-heir here with high spirit potential, and a Captain, at that. You won’t even get to torment another convoy.”
“Still upset about the convoy? They were bluecoats; barely sapient.”
“What does that little lightning-fried mind of yours think you can accomplish? What do you want?”
Nasyme smirked. “If I tell you, then you have to return the favour. What do you want?”
“Fine,” Myrrir spat.
“A free planet. It is simple. No overlords, no bluecoats, no colonial offices. Only fields and hills for our horses to roam.”
“That’s hopelessly naïve.”
“I am aware, but I can’t change my dream.” Nasyme crossed his arms. “And you? Why have you been roaming the galaxy, hunting down a half-phoenix?”
“My father told me to.” Myrrir squinted. Tye must have told the man a lot.
“So…you have been hunting the most powerful—”
“Most potential power.”
“—person in the galaxy, hoping to trap her somehow, because your father—who has now disowned you—told you to?”
Myrrir tightened his hands into fists. “So he will pass the godly authority onto me when he dies!”
“Ah, there it is.”
Nasyme and Myrrir stared at each other for a few seconds, looking straight into one another’s eyes.
Finally, Nasyme leaned back and shook his head. “Tell me what happened to my grandson.”
Myrrir didn’t.
It was going to be a long month.
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“Ah, the sweet smell of…wheat. And more wheat! How much did this guy need? By the Stream, it’s no wonder Karmion didn’t see a use for Talock…”
Wren marched down the main thoroughfare of the tent village on Harvest Sanctuary’s Stream-facing shore, hunting for anyone who looked like they knew anything. But the only useful thing she saw was wheat. It grew between the tents, or had been packed down by hundreds of horses and thousands of walking people.
Most of the people in the village were mortals, all looking to push some sort of service or another to the God-heirs who had flocked to the planet. She tuned their chatter out. Her moth wings folded behind her like a cloak, swaying in the faint breeze, and her fur collar rustled.
At the end of the thoroughfare, though, was possibly the most legitimate of all the services: a pub. It was a round, half-fabric-half-wood structure about two-storeys tall, with a plain white tarp for a roof. A sign stood outside the entrance, but she couldn’t be bothered to read it as she ducked through the tent’s opening.
Smoke wafted out the entrance, but inside, everything was hazy. A bunch of sailors sat in a corner, but there were a few God-heirs here—she could feel the tingle of their presence in the back of her neck.
One of them had to know something about a ship covered in golden ornaments—the Harmony. Or maybe they’d seen pale white flashes of starlight. Or better yet, perhaps they had heard about a God-heir who wielded flame.