Six times we marched. Six times we proclaimed a mortal as our god, and six times we paid the price.
Six times we attacked Morghol, and Torment, and Oblivion himself.
Oblivion. If only oblivion had been our end.
Men seek the Endowed still. Fools. Six times we marched, six times we failed. If there is one thing mankind can depend on, it is that the prophecy will disappoint them.
-Zaethin Devaro, circa 200 Post Imprisonment
Ithrey was alive. Her veins still felt like they would burst, and her muscles burned like the core of a white star, but she was alive.
That might not last long. As the Ethean Surgewielder had promised, she was still in Talar captivity, surrounded by half a dozen armed soldiers, all of whom looked far less exhausted than she. Her Surge had been confiscated, and she now huddled in the corner of an enemy carrier, ascending through the sky towards the wormhole.
The Ethean was with them. Unlike the other soldiers, he did not stand at attention, instead leaning against the wall of the carrier, eyes closed, twisting his lasertip in his hand. He was muttering to himself, though Ithrey couldn’t tell what he was saying.
She’d thought the man had defied orders in sparing her. There was no way he hadn’t at least considered killing her, with the way he’d fought. She shivered as she remembered him standing over her, lasertip ready to strike, a grim expression on his face. His remaining eye had seemed to glow with fiery orange light as he’d stared impassively downward. The eye of a killer. Like the eyes of her father that night, all those years ago, planted on the face of a different man.
And suddenly, he’d stopped, the killer’s glint puffing away like smoke. Muttered to himself, as he did now. Then, against all reason, spared her. He’d almost seemed protective of her when he’d delivered her to the Talar guards, insisting that Larsh wanted her alive, and not to harm her. Such a strange man. Though she probably should have suspected that, judging by his uniform. No sane Ethean would fight for the Talar. Not after what the Voidlings had done to that poor planet.
She forced her gaze away from the man. Whatever his intentions, he was in her way. Mirador had fallen, but she was alive. That meant she hadn’t failed Alaran, not yet. She still had a chance.
It was wonderful. And terrifying. She’d known the Talar victory was coming, and she’d known it would be a tragedy for the people she served, but she hadn’t had any time to think about what the nation’s defeat would mean for her. In a way, it hadn’t mattered. Not until she’d received that message from Alaran, informing her he’d found the Endowed.
The Endowed. Found, after millennia of searching. Most would be skeptical of anyone who made such a claim, but Ithrey knew her brother. He barely believed in the Tower of Foreseeing at all, let alone the prophecy. Yet, he thought this girl was it. For Ithrey, that spoke volumes. And the fact that Alaran didn’t think he could save the girl alone said even more.
So. A plan. She needed a plan. She steadied her hands, which she hadn’t realized were still trembling, and forced herself to breathe in deeply. Her mind still felt slow, taxed to the limit from the fighting and especially from her use of Ever, but she did her best to clear it.
They hit the wormhole just as she closed her eyes, and her concentration was momentarily broken by the gut wrenching sensation of teleportation. It quickly faded, though, and she relaxed. A plan. If Alaran were in her position, he’d make a plan first. Then he’d adapt as need be. And to make a plan, she needed to analyze her current situation.
It wasn’t promising. She had no Surge now, and barely any information on what would happen next. The Ethean had claimed Larsh wanted to meet with them both, but heavens only knew if the man was sane. Even if he was right, she couldn’t think of any reason Larsh would want her, save for an execution. She winced as she thought of the noose slipping around her neck.
No time to worry about your own life, she chided herself. Too much is at stake.
Her biggest asset, she decided, would be her connections. If she could contact the rest of the Seekers, perhaps they could assist her. Ithrey might not know what to do herself, but Aiedra certainly would.
She opened her eyes, craning her neck to stare out the carrier window toward their destination. She recognized it immediately: a planet with an atmosphere so full of green clouds it looked more like a gas giant than anything habitable. Xilia, capital of Talar, as the Ethean had said. Perhaps he wasn’t insane after all.
As they approached the planet’s surface, the soldiers began handing out thick metal facemasks; though Ithrey had never visited the planet, she knew Xilia’s surface was rife with poison gas. The Ethean handed her one, and she slipped it over her face, trying not to meet his gaze.
“Make sure you tighten it,” he muttered. “Any leaks, and you’re dead.”
“I know how poison works,” Ithrey replied. “I’ll be fine.”
The Ethean hesitated a moment, then nodded. “I guess the poison isn’t the real danger,” she heard him whisper as he walked off.
They landed a few minutes later. The doors slid open to reveal a landing pad shrouded by wisps of green fog. An entrance to a tall, black tower waited at the end of it, though through the fog she could not see any farther. One of the Talar soldiers checked each of the passengers’ masks one last time, and then the door slid open and they made their way out. The air outside licked hungrily at Ithrey’s skin; she could feel it drying out. She let out a relieved breath as they reached the entrance, where a pneumatic door snapped open and admitted them into a hallway, where a second door held off the outside air from the rest of the building. The first door snapped close, and there was a loud whine as a filter sucked away the green mist. A moment later, the second door popped open, and the soldiers stepped into a bustling hallway. Several of those escorting Ithrey took off their masks as they entered the chaos. The Ethean, notably, did not, instead fastening it tighter and sweeping his eyes over the hallway, expression hawkish.
They proceeded to the nearest lift, where, strangely, the Talar guards moved away, leaving Ithrey alone with the Ethean. As the door sealed behind them, Ithrey cleared her throat.
“What is this?”
“I told you, we’re going to see Larsh.”
Ithrey frowned. “I see. I… thought you were joking.” Deep down, she’d been hoping he’d been insane. It would certainly make things easier if he were. It didn’t seem likely anymore, though.
“Why would I joke about that?”
Ithrey was silent. No need to give this man more information than he needed.
Eventually, he grunted. “Well, she wants to see us.” His tone softened. “Don’t give her what she wants. The worst she can do is kill you, and I don’t think that’s avoidable anyway.”
“How comforting.”
“Wasn’t meant to be comforting.”
They fell into silence, and the Ethean slowly closed his eyes again, leaning against the wall. The lift continued to whirl, headed, strangely, downward rather than upward. They had to be almost below ground at this point, didn’t they? Did Xilia have an Undercity?
The Ethean had a dagger out now, and was scraping the flat of the blade against his arm, breathing fast. Ithrey twitched uncomfortably.
“What are you doing?”
The Ethean cracked open an eye, sighing. “You’re a talkative one.”
“I’m too exhausted to care what you think. Put the knife down. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to stab me later.”
“If I wanted you dead, I would have killed you by now,” the Ethean muttered. But he obeyed, sheathing the blade. Beneath their feet, the lift slowed to a stop. The door slid open to reveal a short hallway, unoccupied, that ended in a single door. A symbol had been painted on that door, a deep purple Bladed Wheel, the seal of the Cunning One, leader of Talar. The Ethean immediately snapped into posture, and his hand began to shake again as he stepped out into the hallway.
“Don’t let her intimidate you,” he muttered. “The worst she can do is kill you.”
“You already said that.”
“I’m not talking to you.”
The whole interaction, combined with his strange uniform and bright white hair, raised a host of questions, but Ithrey had to quiet those as the second door popped open, revealing a small, almost cozy office behind it, with a small oak desk and shelves covered in data tablets. A window covered a large portion of the far wall, though Ithrey could see nothing but rocky blackness beyond it.
The more important thing, though, was the woman standing in the doorway. She was tall, with dark hair and purple eyes, and skin that had clearly been smothered with white makeup. She wore black-painted titrite armor, though the armor was surrounded by a decorative violet skirt. She gave the Ethean a brief nod, then beckoned toward Ithrey, her expression growing dark.
“Ithrey Valeo. Come, we have much to discuss.”
***
It did not take long for Perelor to realize that Ithrey was far better at handling a visit with Larsh than he was. He could tell she was nervous — and who wouldn’t be — but she handled herself with a cool confidence that masked it well, gliding into the room with her arms clasped behind her back, somehow regal despite her tattered uniform. The crying desperation she’d shown when he’d almost killed her would be unthinkable if you saw her now.
At first Perelor tried to stay outside, but Larsh glared pointedly at him, and he shivered, forcing his feet forward and into the little office. As always when he was around Larsh, he felt as if he were moving through liquid rather than air, and he kept his eyes away from her face as much as he could. That face brought too many memories to the surface. He drew his dagger again, sliding it across his arm, not cutting, but reminding himself that he could cope with this, later. Ithrey shot him another nervous glance as he did, but he didn’t care. She could think him unstable all she wanted. She’d be right, just not in the way she thought.
You did almost kill her, a part of him noted. So she’s not wrong to be scared of you.
He wasn’t sure if that was the right choice, now. It had all come upon him so fast, emotions he hadn’t realized how much he’d suppressed. They were gone now, burrowed back into the deeper parts of his soul since the danger had disappeared. And so he was left in a strange clarity, wondering.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
His sister was the Endowed. Strangely, he felt more sure of that now than he had just hours before. In the grand scheme of things, she was far more important than any small planet general could ever be. It was horrible, but it was the truth. On most days, his emotions would have cooperated with his earlier decision to kill Ithrey. After all, he’d sworn an oath.
And yet, somehow, he didn’t regret his decision. He questioned it, yes. Loathed himself, more than a little, for breaking his promise yet again. But he didn’t regret it.
Even if the woman was searing annoying.
Larsh let the silence hang for a long while, staring out the window, though there was nothing beyond it but solid black rock. Finally, she turned.
“Ithrey Valeo. High Commander of the Miradoran forces, yes?”
Ithrey hesitated, and Larsh rolled her eyes.
“Anything I ask you is only a formality, girl. I can read your thoughts. Speak clearly, though, and you may earn my respect, if not my mercy.”
Ithrey winced, but cleared her throat. “I am.”
“Your capital has been captured. I personally slit the throats of every member of the Miradoran Assembly.”
Ithrey’s face grew suddenly pale. “I see.”
Larsh raised an eyebrow. “I am not a kind woman, Valeo. Surely you have seen enough to know that. I would also have you know that every member of that group offered their secret allegiance to me at one point or another, all before the capital had fallen. I elected not to use their services, as I have no need for spies, nor for cowards.”
Ithrey swallowed, but nodded. “I see.”
Larsh smiled. “You are afraid. Good. It means I am doing my job.” She leaned forward, hands on her desk. “I had Krot capture you, rather than kill you, so I could negotiate surrender. I assumed, based on your reputation, that you would be more sympathetic to the plight of your people than those Assemblymen. Was I wrong?”
Ithrey hesitated, and for a moment Perelor wondered if she actually was as confident as she’d appeared earlier. Then, she straightened, the hesitation fading.
“I am willing to talk peace,” she said. “Though, with the government in shambles, I cannot promise any agreement I make will be honored by the remaining Mirador forces.”
“Not peace,” Larsh corrected. “Surrender. And that is fine. I have plenty of experience quashing rebellions. I simply want this formalized, for my representatives on Xeredon.”
Ithrey nodded. “What are your terms, then?”
Perelor felt his interest in the conversation fade as they began talking politics. Had Larsh really only asked him to bring Ithrey in for this? And why have him stand in during the negotiation? It wasn’t as if she needed a searing bodyguard.
Cyrla knew Ithrey, too, he realized. To the point where she was willing to defy orders to have me get rid of her. Why?
He considered for a moment, then pushed the thoughts away. It was all probably some strange political maneuver — after all, Cyrla had also implied she was working on overthrowing Larsh. Her and every other noble in the Six Houses. Okron, this entire thing was reminding him just how much he hated these games. His father’s diplomatic skill was one of the few things he’d never managed to understand about the man.
Eventually, the negotiation slowed to a stop — if you could even call it a negotiation. Perelor only caught a small amount of the conversation, but it seemed to consist mostly of Larsh demanding things from Ithrey, and Ithrey conceding, though repeatedly informing Larsh just how little control she had over the remaining Miradoran forces. The red-haired woman’s shoulders slumped down further and further as Larsh continued listing her expectations. But, eventually, the Talar leader was satisfied, and she turned back to the window.
“That settles it, then.” She cleared her throat. “Now, for what I really brought you here for.”
Ithrey grew visibly paler. Larsh turned, lips pursed.
“You know what I want already, don’t you? I can feel your emotions; you are afraid. Terrified, even. I assure you, though, I have no intent to harm your master. Not as long as she assists me where she is needed.”
That was a lie. Perelor knew from experience that Larsh tortured anyone who didn’t serve her. That was how he’d ended up in the slave squadrons; Larsh had, rightly, assumed that the bloodshed there would drive him further and further toward the breaking point. Surprisingly, though, Ithrey relaxed.
“Aiedra has no interest in assisting you.”
“Our goals are the same,” Larsh said.
“Your goals are the same in word only. Aiedra condemns you for your war. She says it is a war not only against other nations, but against the fabric of morality itself.”
Perelor frowned. Who is Aiedra? Some higher up on Mirador? She just said she killed all those.
Larsh began pacing. “You assume much,” she said, voice quiet, “about your master’s intentions. She has lived far longer than either of us, and I do not think either of us are capable of predicting her.”
“Maybe not,” Ithrey said, her expression tightening, “but I do know myself. You will get nothing from me.”
Larsh snorted, then closed her eyes. “I,” she said, “can get whatever I want.”
Perelor winced. This was a classic memory burner interrogation tactic. Get someone thinking about a subject, then use your connection to the First Power to read their thoughts. No matter how mindful you were, there wasn’t any getting around a trick like that.
Larsh eye’s snapped open a moment later, though, and she growled angrily. “Identity wards,” she snapped. “Fool! I should have expected this.” Her fists tightened, and she closed her eyes again, this time forcing herself to relax. “Your master is skilled. I had hoped not to resort to brutality, but understand that, should you not speak, torture is my only remaining method to loosen your tongue.”
Ithrey straightened. “I will endure what I must.”
“Oh, it will not be physical torture, girl. I know when someone will go mad before they break. However, there are other forms of torment. Much, much worse forms.” She glanced at Perelor, who felt his stomach sink as he realized what she was going to do.
“I have researched you,” she continued. “You are friends with many of your infantrymen. You may be willing to die for this, but they have not made any commitment. Nevertheless, their fate will be decided by you.” She waved to Perelor. “From this moment on, you are under Captain Krot’s command. I have filled the empty spots in his squadron with Miradorans. They will die there. If you question that fact, you can ask Krot himself. For every one that dies, I will send you a holoscreen with the respective footage.”
Ithrey blanched. “You tyrant,” she hissed.
Larsh’s face was impassive. She wasn’t smiling, nor was she regretful. She just gestured toward the door. “You are dismissed.”
“You won’t kill my friends,” Ithrey seethed. “I won’t let you.”
“I’m sure you won’t. You are dismissed, girl.”
Ithrey’s face was red with anger, but her eyes drifted down to Larsh’s Surge, and some of the color drained away as she turned and left. Perelor made to leave behind her, but Larsh held up a hand.
“You will stay. Valeo will wait outside, but we have more to discuss.”
Perelor swallowed, but nodded, shutting the door behind Ithrey, then straightening. Larsh let silence hang in the air for several minutes. They felt like hours. Images flashed through Perelor’s mind, memories. His father’s charred out eyes. Crelang, fully aglow with Ever, thrown aside like litter.
And… and…
Flames.
Blood.
Screams.
Rubble.
And a blade he so desperately wanted to thrust through himself…
His mind suddenly went blank, and he let out a relieved breath. Larsh finally began to speak.
“Cyrla ordered you to disobey me.”
“Yes. She spoke of a mutiny.”
“I was already aware of that. She has not acted directly enough to warrant any retribution, but she has laid the groundwork for an usurption. I am not particularly concerned; precautions are long since in place.”
“That’s… good, I guess.” Perelor couldn’t actually decide if Cyrla or Larsh would make a better leader, though he didn’t care to give the matter more thought.
“The more concerning thing to me is how sorely tempted you were to actually go through with it,” Larsh said. “You were wise not to, of course. You could have covered up any physical evidence, but the mind does not forget, and I would have found out eventually.”
“I… am sorry.”
“You do not need to apologize. You did not act on her offer, and your weakness is not an offense, merely concerning.” She paused. “You still seek your sister. Curious.”
“Is it wrong to want to be with my family?” Perelor asked, not completely able to suppress the ice in his tone. The only family member you haven’t killed?
Larsh was silent for a long time. Strangely long. But eventually, she spoke. “No. No, it is not. But it is curious.” She met his eyes, and she stared into them for a long time, her own eyes narrowing. “Very curious.” She sighed. “But that is not relevant. I merely wanted to assign you the duty of keeping Valeo alive. I want her to see the slave squadrons firsthand, but she cannot give me what I need from Torment, and between you and your Surgewielder friend, I do not think keeping her alive will be too difficult. I will give her a healing Surge, I think, less potent than yours, but with the same strings attached. My only real concern is Cyrla, but I think I can keep her in check.”
“I… think I can do that. As long as you really do give her a healing Surge.” He felt a weight he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying rise off his back. He knew Ithrey’s name, but he wouldn’t have to watch her die.
Not yet. Once she gives in though, her death will be even worse…
He forced himself not to think that far ahead. “Is that all?”
“Yes, I think that is all.” Her voice softened. “Thank you, for not betraying me. I do understand how much reason you have to want me dead.”
His father’s smiling face flashed through his mind, then another image. A charred version of that same face. It wasn’t for you.
“No,” Larsh whispered. “I suppose it was not.” She straightened. “You are dismissed.”
Relaxing a bit, Perelor turned to leave. Just as Perelor reached to open the door, though, he felt a soft force push his hand back. Larsh sighed audibly, and Perelor turned.
“One last thing,” she said. “I already know the answer, but I must ask it anyway.”
“I won’t join you,” Perelor hissed.
“We will need memory burners, Perelor. Perhaps not for the conquering, but when we fight Oblivion.”
My powers don’t even work, Perelor thought. Larsh cocked an eyebrow.
“They do,” she said softly. “You simply have to remember. Once you reignite them, they may be even stronger than before. You could be a great asset to the cause.”
“The cause? What cause?” Perelor snapped. “I know you can read my thoughts, so I’ll be straight with you. I’ve watched you burn children alive. I watched you burn my father alive. And no matter how much you pretend to regret that, I can see in those violet eyes that you don’t. So let me say it again: I. Will. Never. Serve. You.” He balled his hands into fists, and his arms yearned to twist backward and unsheathe his lasertip. This woman, this searing monster, had taken everything from him. Everything. How dare she even suggest he join her! How dare she stand unharmed with those pursed lips, analyzing everything but feeling nothing, watching his men die, making them die.
He hated her. And Okron, he hated that anger. The fire of it felt too much like the warmth of hope. Slowly, he forced his hands back open. That might have been too much. Larsh was already growing impatient. He shouldn’t have pushed her; if he died, Eliel’s hope for rescue died with him.
To his surprise, though, Larsh actually smiled. She almost looked wistful as she stared at him, tapping her finger against her desk.
“You’re more like Rion than you realize,” she said, tone perfectly level. The tone she used when she was about to do something horrifying. “It is why I keep you alive, I think. One last reminder of my humanity, even as I do what I must.” She waved her hand, and the door snapped open. “Your answer is understood. You are dismissed. Though I do warn you, Krot. There is very little mercy left in me anymore. Tempt me too much longer, and one day I will stop asking for your loyalty.
“On that day, you will fear as your father did.”
Something about the way she delivered those words sent chills running up Perelor’s spine, and though defiance still burned in his chest, he felt only relief as she turned and stared out the window again. She remained silent as he walked away and shut the door behind him.