The Green Gate of Sirennica stood in its narrow valley like the shadowy remnant of some ancient bastion, or the well-kept hedgerow of a hidden tribe of giants. Never mind that it had only been finished two summers before--hardly any surface of its gray stone showed beneath soft patches of verdant moss and a tangled overgrowth of evergreen vines and winding, browning branches.

It had always been a welcome sight for Siren--even one for sore eyes. But though her eyes were plenty sore today (still stunned wide from the morning’s proceedings, and wind battered from the long ride home), the Gate bid her no fond greeting.

The people will be behind that gate, she correctly guessed. She’d had a niggling sense all morning--just enough to distract her from her dry eyes and a recently damaged arm--that perhaps her astounding victory might turn out to be more like a defeat.

Naturally, she rebelled at the thought. The war was over, after all--and it had evaded decisive verdict for too many years. Furthermore, the losses incurred were at an acceptable level.

Not just acceptable, she reassured herself: miraculous. And there was the rub. Personally, Siren had nothing but enthusiasm for the experiment’s results.

“A fucking miracle stick, Condur,” she’d bellowed, before the dust had settled. Then she’d grabbed her general by the rim of his collar and shaken him jubilantly. “A fucking miracle stick.” The other arm she had tucked against her side, and had winced when it moved much at all. She had only begun to feel, under the wasp-bite heat which had wracked at it, the pooling of blood in her numb palm. A few scratches had been glowing freshly red on Condur’s temple, and he’d been winking hard at a watery eye.

He had not shared her enthusiasm. After politely shrugging her arm off his back, he’d simply turned and stomped lugubriously away. Siren had winced with shame, but convinced herself that he had been more upset about his recently perished niece than the spectacle to which he’d just been presented.

Now, she was having her doubts. The soldiers had taken the news alright--most were relieved that it was over, and anyone else, just faintly irritated that they wouldn’t have a chance for glory.

What if it just hadn’t sunk in yet? They had all cheered when she announced her victory. It had certainly felt…victorious. But the expressions they had worn when their eyes fell to the east…

Of course, the people had always been superstitious. Given a week, they’d all be winging about “warmaking propriety,” and the possibility of malign suls materializing from the many unburied Tushikan corpses. But they were also fearful--the same week might bring calls to hang Siren on a burning tree.

Seeing the Green Gate, it had occurred to her that word of the battle must have gotten home long before her--amongst the many tribal vassals and allies of Sirennica were some groups of horse-riders, and their skills as messengers were not overlooked. So, it was with a heavy gulp that Siren dreadfully wondered: What will the commoners make of this? and, even more hopelessly: the clans?

She came by a long, curving ridge of shallow hills, all the blood in her ears, and her vision blurry with absent thoughtfulness. But when she reached the Green Gate’s actual gate, and the Hollow Guard parted to bid her through, the main road of Siren’s city played out behind it like a scene in the most wonderful drama--one in which Siren had been offered the leading role.

She didn’t quite believe it: there were all the sweet, vernal colors. By Burgis’s wooden tit, she marveled, the florists must have squeezed their stems to death! It certainly appeared implausible, contrasted against the failing red and golden hues of autumn all around.

But the people roared at their archon’s approach--she didn’t just hear it, she could feel it--and the gatehouse drums erupted into thunderous rolls and sharp, booming strikes. Showers of white petals rained over her entrance as bundles of blossoms--yellow, purple and brightest orange--fell into the road before her. On such short notice? The chariot slowed as Siren, slack jawed, was almost forcibly transported into the celebration.

After the last petal had fallen, and all the crowd’s flowers lovingly deposited on the road, it still took Siren a moment to notice the sudden quietness. All the blood seemed to be in her head, but none of it was going to her brain.

Am I breathing? She felt hot.

But she roused herself, blinking her dry and tired eyes until tears welled. Then she raised one hand.

“I--” she stuttered, then took a long breath. “I’m sorry.” She turned her head from left to right, examining the assembly with a swelling mix of pride and awe. She continued, bellowing now as loud as she could currently manage: “I’m sorry. If I’d known you were coming out to meet me, I would have brought some prisoners.” Some cheers, some laughs--some awfully grotesque insults about the invaders which made Siren grin. Her voice grew stronger. “Unfortunately, there are no prisoners.” Then some boos, some hisses. Siren stomped her feet on the chariot floor--it was louder than any drum--and snarled.

“There are no prisoners!” she repeated, screaming now over the rising clamor. “Because there are no survivors!” Applause fell over the crowd like a great, lazy wave. Siren turned her head to the other half of her audience. “There are no survivors!” she cried again. The joyous cries deafened her, muted her, surrounded and caressed her.

Painfully, Siren raised both arms, for once unoccupied by Bleeding Leaf, and whole-heartedly accepted this rightful (and long overdue) triumph. This must be how a king feels, she thought, and her face grew even warmer. The throbbing aches seemed to melt away. No ceremony, no religious procession--just me. But it wasn’t long before the noise had gotten the best of the horses’ nerves, and when their wriggling discontent started the chariot, she was forced to bring her good hand down to the reins, and the moment was over. The bad arm slowly, creakingly followed. She wrestled the beasts into composure, and carried on through the city,

The crowds fell in behind her, so an impromptu parade formed with Siren at its head. She looked from side to side, beholding clanspeople, commoners, and even visiting tribespeople. She found an especially vindictive joy from the expressions of the clan heads:

There was Deltric and his two sons standing stone-faced on their rooftop balcony. Closer up, it was clear they were trying not to see her. A visibly vexed Paldrun, surrounded by his several doting daughters and nieces, looked perfectly invalid. The ancient Bultric was obvious, gray head at an unflattering tilt as he deafly slept in the late, failing heat.

Though she was followed by most of that crowd down the avenue, the rest of the road was decidedly less thronged, and her celebratory expression of fierce satisfaction waned into a merely relieved smile. Once, and only briefly, she looked down at the naked starstone and felt the gentle tug of a more intimate joy--along with the tug of her recently damaged shoulder.

With a start, she remembered it lying on the battlefield, nested in the pulverized remains of its housing. Everything faded--the noise, the elation. Everything but the pain.

And something else. Something… familiar, but distant. Something that was growing closer, closer, coming even into Siren’s mind.

Oh, Burgis, no…

The hangers on, Hollow Guards, and a smaller but substantial crowd waiting at the palace were rightly confused when their triumphal subject took the road’s north fork away from them--toward the market district, and the Forest Gate (in fact, she’d almost collided with the right flank of her escort).

“This can wait until tomorrow,” she muttered under her breath, “can’t it?” But her hands, as if on puppet’s tethers, merely shook the reins.

Not much further down the road, she started to hear it--though it wasn’t so much a voice in her head as it was a violent, intrusive thought as inescapable as it was distinctly foreign.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Fuck, she thought, and simultaneously: “fuck” indeed, Siren! Though it didn’t get much clearer than that, one thing was clear as a winter brook--the goddess was less than pleased with her champion.

The sleepy guards at the otherwise predictable Forest Gate were perhaps more surprised than anyone else, and hurried to yank open the gates only after Siren’s party had already come to a stop. The parade, apparently optimistic that she’d turn back, proceeded only cautiously some distance behind her. She tried to oblige them, but quite literally couldn’t bring herself to do it.

As she rolled morosely through the gatehouse, Siren looked down over the idyllic Keldu Riverlands, a sparse line of alternating fields and village clusters which stretched from Burgis’ shadow to the distant shores of Lake Andow. The well-worn road wound down Sirennica’s bluff edge into the farmland. A charming, healthful hike--it was one she would not be taking. Instead, she turned almost instantly west, following a narrow, well camouflaged path as it wound around the bluff’s rocky terrain.

It gave the horses ample trouble--especially as they had to pass a returning pilgrim, the lone traveler they would meet that afternoon. But Burgis’ grip on the reins (via Siren’s hands), was thankfully firm, and her control of the horses, strangely masterful.

At its base, the path opened up to a wide, grassy meadow scattered with half-buried boulders. The forest stood perilously close, brooding over the otherwise peaceful spot so that even the cackling of the native grouse and killdeers seemed strained. Siren tugged at the reins, driving her team over the unkept, but still faintly described, path as it led into the forest. Their pace seemed to waver as the towering canopy came over them, ominously sloughing off leaves which crunched spine-tinglingly under the chariot wheels. Insects, the summer’s last holdovers, buzzed ambiently in an undetectable distance.

The road petered out just before the farthest reaching limbs of the canopy could shade it. There stood the unadorned, stone figure--a rather humble looking woman, dressed not unlike the Temple sisters--of Burgis’ official shrine. Siren noted three offerings: a bouquet of flowers--no doubt taken from the same stock as the veritable field presented to her at the Green Gate; a simple, blood-caked knife (Heartwarming, Siren sardonically observed. Some people still make proper offerings); and a pair of well-worn shoes--a confounding Noriac tradition which was as lost on the goddess as it was on poor Siren.

She only hoped that one of those offerings was made on her behalf--it looked like she’d need it.

How far is she going to make me go? Siren wondered, and became presently aware that the chariot was gone, that the only leaves crunching were those beneath her feet. It was dark--too dark for the time of day. But then…how long have I been walking? The malaise of panic seeped out of her in a cold sweat. But this wasn’t her first divine punishment, and she maintained just enough calm reason to resist the deity’s dreamlike retribution.

It might have been hours, or just that half-awoken moment when a nightmare ends. But, of course, this was someone else’s dream--one from which she could not rouse herself. So she wandered through the darkness, slowly, laboriously. A verisimilar construct of panic, impotence, and exhaustion.

Eventually, she came upon a grove lit as if by firelight. Under a rising intensity of fear, she realized that she was a child again. She wanted to cry, to crawl into an elven hovel and hide. Before she had the chance, the goddess spoke; renegade thoughts drowned Siren’s waking mind

“Just fucking talk to me!” Siren cried, though she could hardly hear herself, her mind drowned in foreign interjections. But the compulsion dropped, and all the illusions. Siren felt it like a diver reemerging from the depths. She gasped, falling to her knees and sputtering saliva.

“Oh,” she groaned, “you bitch.” There was no reply. Siren forced her eyes open, and the torch-like, orange glow glittered in the streak of tears which spanned her lashes. She lifted her head against a convulsive stiffness in the back of her neck. There was Burgis, the Dread Goddess--more in the form which had earned her the moniker than she typically appeared to her champion.

Here was a woman of terrible beauty, whose hair flowed around her stark, small face like a crown of flowing, liquid amber. Her figure was prodigious, with broad, round shoulders, hung with a gown of autumn leaves which glowed like lighted Gothesgalite glass lamps, bulging out from her full breast, protruding belly, and stalwart hips. The gown descended eight feet from Burgis’ aspen face to the forest floor, where it joined the carpet of fallen leaves in its ghostly majesty. Siren felt very small, almost suffocated by the overwhelming presence.

“I take it you’re unhappy,” she managed unconvincingly, nevertheless relishing her freedom from the goddess’ grip.

Burgis scowled, and all the leaves twittered hauntingly around them. “You stupid mortal,” she said, and though it was still delivered directly to her mind, Siren could finally make sense of it. “You, stupid, lazy, arrogant mortal.”

Siren’s heart thumped painfully in her chest. She could feel the cold air sucking greedily into her helpless lungs. It was with some force of will that she gripped onto that fear and worked it into a hard pit of anger.

“Don’t you fucking start with me, Burgis,” she shot back, and was pleased enough that the words hadn’t merely caught in her throat. She gave her best snarl, then continued: “What’s got you so riled up, anyway? When I want help, you’re all playful withholding; now, I help myself--”

“Help yourself?” the goddess seethed. “Making a brand new forest? Yourself? You think you did that? You think you pulled those trees from the ground so fast that the landslide killed four thousand men? You really think that?”

“Well you gave me the rock,” Siren answered, a bit weakly. “What I do with it is…my business.” The goddess stayed furiously silent. “Besides, it’s a few more trees for you--what are you complaining about?” Even before she’d finished, she could feel Burgis’ ire spiking.

“No, Siren, it’s not ‘a few more trees for me.’ Where do you think the trees came from? It’s a few trees less for me, and now I have a mob of angry deities--the Melk among them--wondering why there’s a new, godless forest made out of my substance.”

“But--” Siren stopped herself. What she’d almost said was “mother,” a word with which she hadn’t described Burgis since…well, maybe since the last time she was so vitriolically chastised--when she was a child.

“But nothing, Siren. I trust you will not continue to rely on such…arrogant tactics in the wars to come.”

The “wars to come?” Siren pondered, as the goddess let out another litany of insults.

“You really think the easterners will come back after…that?” she interrupted.

“What? I wasn’t talking about the Tushikans, I was talking about--” the goddess caught herself, and frowned maliciously.

“My, you must be angry,” Siren prodded, and the goddess’ dress shivered in a long, cold gust. “How about I make it up to you…with a sacrifice.”

Then Burgis seemed to shrink, and she was at eye level with the archon, studying her mortal face.

“Seventeen. Children, naturally. Let’s have seven boys and ten girls--”

“No, Burgis. I’m sorry, but the Noriacs really aren’t into that kind of thing.”

“Then what did you have in mind?” She was pouting, but not particularly angry.

Siren shrugged. “Whatever’s on hand, I suppose.”

“Oh, how very generous.”

“Well, I won’t know what’s available until I get there.”

“The archon doesn’t know what’s ‘available’ in her own city?”

“I wasn’t talking about my city,” Siren said with a wry smile. She feel could hear her own heartbeat--an ecstatic mix of nervousness and relief. She finally knew what the goddess wanted--and she was about to commit to it: “I was talking about yours.”

The goddess was a child again, and her dress peeled away from the floor of desiccated leaves, white as her aspen skin, in a breath of clinging fog. “It’s a deal,” she said.

“You don’t need to make a contract out of it,” Siren dully rebuffed, suddenly feeling more nervous than relieved. “I intend to make good.”

“Foolish mortal,” she said again, with a laughter that was a trickling of the gentle brush of leaves. “You know it’s no fun to need to ask for your own gift?”

“You didn’t ask,” Siren assured her, repressing all the years’ worth of exasperation. “You really didn’t ask.”

“I might as well have,” she responded plainly. “Don’t make me angry again, Siren?”

Or what? Siren wondered. You’ll tell me what you want me to do? She ignored the request.

“Are you going to put me back under the illusion, or can I just leave regularly?”

“Punishing you just isn’t any fun anymore, Siren.”

“I agree.”

A showering of rain sounded off the tops of the trees around the clearing, and then the drops fell ploddingly on her face. The goddess was gone. Siren turned from the trees and saw a grassy meadow, dotted with boulders. Before her stood her chariot, her horses shaking raindrops off their long heads, and the modest shrine with its modest assortment of offerings.

Well, she considered, wiping the fat drops from her brow, and shivering in the sudden, wet cold, at least I got a straight answer.