The meeting chamber of the Emissaries wasn’t as formal on the Shattered Moon as it was on Mascant, and nothing was official, but Karmion needed a meeting.
They stood in a dim, low-ceilinged chamber beneath the arena floor. Mouldy brick walls encroached on a rectangular table, and a lantern flickered in the center. There were no chairs, but there was more than enough room for all the gods to gather.
“She can’t win,” Karmion asserted, leaning on the edge of the table. “If she does, we’ll have a god working against us.”
“She can’t accept the power of another Emissary,” said Vallor, God of Ships. “It’d rip her apart.”
“Her team, then,” Karmion stressed. “You all know what I speak of.”
The gods all grumbled and muttered until Karmion slammed his hand down on the table, silencing them.
“So keep sending assassins, and have your children target her, on and on, and see how far you get,” Brannul, Goddess of Wind droned. “Until she’s strong enough that you won’t look weak and dishonourable killing her. What do you say? Wait until she’s an Admiral? Grand Admiral?”
“If I have to, I will face her at Grand Admiral, and it will still be a slaughter,” Karmion rubbed her forehead and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “But I would rather this be done as soon as possible, and in a way that doesn’t involve her death.”
“So what if she dies?” Atrous, the Sun God, asked. “The Stream will pick another Mediator, but they’ll be starting from scratch. It might be one of us who gets it, too.”
“One of us?” Karmion snorted. “So you’d volunteer to put yourself in a Mediator’s body and be trapped for the rest of your life?”
“I’d volunteer to work for you as a Mediator.”
But Karmion couldn’t trust that. He kept his face expressionless and only stared at Atrous, and hopefully, the Sun God would understand that he had spoken completely out of line. If another member of the High Pantheon took control of a Mediator, and, with the Stream’s blessing, rose to a godly level…they’d be just as much of a threat to Karmion.
And no Emissary would ever be content to be weak. With the Mediator’s power, they could be the strongest.
But Karmion had his public reasoning, too. He raised his fingers, silencing the murmurs. “The girl is only a half-phoenix. The Stream chose someone with a soul less robust than most Mediators. Her bond with her goddess is weaker. We can imprison her more easily than any other Mediator.” He marched around to the side of the table, stepping behind Nilsenir and the Moon Goddess. “We’ve learned from Talock’s Mediator. If the Mediator doesn't advance, then they’ll die of old age, and a new one will turn up for us to deal with. We end it now, for all eternity.”
“Why the meeting, then?” asked Farrir, God of the Forge. “You already have your plan. Keep rigging the tournament, keep the godly authority out of her or her friends’ hands, and you’ll have everything you need.”
“Because we can trap her, now,” Karmion snarled. He unveiled his spirit a touch, exerting a threatening pressure over all the other gods. Most of them bowed their heads. “I won’t tolerate this dissent for much longer,” he said. “I have let you keep your lands and your sects, and own large sectors of space. If you’d like to keep it, you will serve me.”
He couldn’t just order them to attack the Mediator for him or to invade Velaydian space. Someone would find out about it, and no matter what, a god doing battle would leave casualties. They’d tear up and destroy city-sized swaths of land, and they’d kill millions of innocents. Word would get out.
And once their underlings found out they’d lowered themselves to fight such a weak opponent—a girl who’d only been able to use her magic for a year—they would lose faith in their god. That was the last thing a god needed.
When someone reached the Emissary stages, they couldn’t just advance on sheer power or revelations. They needed to become an icon of faith, to tap into the galaxy’s perception of them. They’d lose physical power if their public perception soured.
And if all the other gods worked together, they might be able to overwhelm Karmion. He couldn’t afford to anger them all, and they couldn’t afford to anger him.
“We will rig the tournament, of course,” Karmion continued, “but we have the chance to make her disappear. As soon as we knock her out of the tournament, we will spring our trap.”
“It only works if you tell us what the trap is,” Farrir countered. He hadn’t backed down from Karmion’s pressure earlier, and a faint whisper of defiance burned in his eyes. As the forge god, he had a broad form and bulging muscles. An enormous warhammer clung to his back, and he wore a greasy, sleeveless tunic.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
His eyes glowed yellow as he cycled Arcara, partially unveiling his spirit to match Karmion.
“I sense displeasure.” No sense in letting anything fester too long. “Speak openly, or don’t speak.”
“If she wins, we all lose. I don’t like losing.”
Karmion’s heartbeat slowed a touch. That was a better attitude. He walked another lap around the table and stopped behind a tall, olive-skinned elf with long, brown hair. She wore a golden dress and a circlet of flowers and twigs.
Kalawen, Goddess of Love. She hadn’t been born to any of the other members of the pantheon, but she had risen on her own from a powerful elven family many centuries ago. Her workings with the soul were unmatched in the galaxy.
“I need you to lend your authority,” Karmion told her. “I have many shadowthorns in my possession, but I have none that attach to the soul directly, only the spirit. But if we can drive a wedge between the Mediator and her bound Goddess, then she will be much easier to imprison.”
“I can do that, my lord,” said Kalawen. “But I will need more guidance on what you need this…special thorn to do, and how it will truly affect her soul.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Imprison where?” Nilsenir tried. “How? My servants have tried, but no prisons made by men will contain her, and she has the only Namola tree in the galaxy.”
“Ah yes,” Karmion smirked. “The only one. The tree that was in my possession for nearly a century, which conveniently, I never plucked a single fruit or branch from?”
“But only the Mediator could pluck a fruit.”
Not true. Only someone who could use the power of the Mediator Form could pluck the fruit, but that restriction meant nothing when Karmion could manipulate the water within the tree, bending its branches and roots and removing all safeguards.
Karmion stared at them and shook his head. “I am no longer bound by the rules of this world. I am a ruler, and all life bows to me.”
The other gods stayed silent.
“That’s exactly what I thought. You have my word, brothers and sisters.” He spread his arms. “I will put this to an end. But you will need to do your parts as well. Make sure your teams are ready, and take her out of the tournament. Once the public eye is off her, we will make her disappear for good. Tomorrow is the opening phase. Don’t even let her onto the main bracket.”
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Karmion walked across Shatterport’s wharf. He wore a thick cloak and a hood, and no civilians would recognize him—especially not at nighttime. He marched back to his ship, a first-rate man-of-war. Three gun decks loomed over the marble piers of Shatterport, painted in the standard white, black, and beige of the Elderworld fleet. Its sails clung neatly to the yards, and rigging formed a net over the sky.
He ascended the gangplank. The sentries knew who he was, and they knew better than to question him. He could wipe the mortal sailors out just by unveiling his core, and they knew it too.
He climbed the quarterdeck stairs and walked around the wheel hub, then approached the great cabin. A first-rate ship had two stern decks—the quarterdeck, and the afterdeck behind it.
Beneath the afterdeck was his personal cabin. He pushed the wooden door open and stepped inside, then shut it behind him. He sealed the window’s shutters with a thought, blocking out the light from outside.
A soft pink glow emanated across the room. It glinted off his maps and tables, his porcelain and glass, his harpsichord, and his closets and weapons racks.
He approached a stout Namola tree.
Like the Harmony’s Namola tree, it sprouted out from the deck. Its roots melded with the boards below, like they were one and the same. But his tree was different. Its fruits were brighter, less natural, and less effective—like a bloated body. Glass tubes ran up from the deck. They jabbed into the branches and trunk of the tree, feeding it spirit water and elixirs, and forcing it to mature in a matter of decades instead of centuries.
Its branches, laden with green leaves and apple-sized fruits, pressed against the ceiling and spread out, making the canopy nearly ten paces wide. Its trunk was a set of interwoven, black tendrils, darker than they’d have been on a natural Namola, and its leaves were blighting at the edges.
But he could still control it.
He held out his hand toward the tree, and, using his most powerful Reach technique, he manipulated the water within the branches. He sensed a Captain-stage presence nearby, watching and observing his habits, and he tolerated it—he knew exactly who it was. She could use a little more motivation, and a demonstration might help.
The branches shifted and adjusted. Some of the black tendrils broke off, curling up into shackles, and others turned to daggers.
It was the pinnacle of his Path, the Path of the Striving Depths. To control the water within another being, and one as strong as the Namola tree?
If he could trap the Mediator in the tree, it would be the strongest prison ever.
Slowly, he turned around, and faced the dark shadow clinging to the rafters. “Did you truly think you could hide from me, daughter?”
Larra dropped down from the ceiling, landing in a crouch. “Teach me. I want to learn. I need to learn.”
“You will not learn on the Namola tree,” Karmion said. It was the most powerful of trees, and she wouldn’t master it. “Prove to me that you can Reach the water within another being, that you can affect blood, and I will teach you the Deeping Grasp. You are not yet worthy of my most powerful techniques, not after your failure on Harvest Sanctuary.”
He knew exactly what buttons to push to calibrate her—to set her on the trail he needed.
Larra looked down at the deck. “I will prove my strength, father. What is your target?”
“I’ll be watching. Tomorrow, in the forest, do not bring any freshwater with you.”
“But—”
“There should be enough blood around, no? What is the main component of blood?”
“...Water.”
“Exactly.”