5: The Journey South (Part II)

Chapter 5: The Journey South (Part II)

The Time: The present day, 720 A.E.

The Place: The kingdom of Saimr

The next few days pass in largely the same way as the first. They leave the mountains farther and farther behind, trickling bit by bit into the lowlands and flatlands of central Saimr. The weather grows a bit warmer, the settlements and farming villages more numerous.

For the disciples, some of the luster has started to come off the romantic idea of traveling the countryside. Ari’s bet with herself holds up: by the third day, Tselai is indeed too disgruntled to bother with his fancy hair ornament and embroidered cloak. Every day, the members of the convoy rise at dawn and retire at sunset, eschewing inns and relay stations to instead camp out in the wilderness.

“These brats are all spoiled,” the Grand Matron tells Ari by way of explanation. “A few nights sleeping on the ground ought to build some character, eh?”

(In reality, the Grand Matron is a cheapskate, but Ari can’t blame her: with so very many people headed to the royal capital, the rates of the roadside inns are highway robbery.)

For the most part, Ari remains at her self-imposed station in the back. Ranan sticks to her like glue, and Tselai and Ambren occasionally join them. The kids are starting to look a bit worn down, unused to riding for such long hours day in and day out, but Ari is having fun. The towns along the royal highway are in shockingly good shape: prosperous, bustling, and largely intact, the damage from the war repaired almost entirely.

Whatever else Ari might have to say about her master, as a queen, Velnyr is no fool: the common people automatically distrust her, given her cultural background and arcane proclivities, but money and power can buy goodwill at a discount. For the past five years, the queen has focused almost all of her efforts on restoring trade and providing relief to the settlements most affected by the war. The vehicle she uses to deliver this relief is her own priesthood; any town that welcomes the construction of her temples will benefit greatly.

It’s no secret that a god’s power shapes the lands they claim. Saimr has never before been under the control of such an impressive deity—God-King Kodezh was formidable, but he doesn’t hold a candle to the Dragon Reborn (or whatever the people are calling her these days). Velnyr can afford to funnelher own power into her domain instead of draining its reserves. As a result, the land itself has been recovering rapidly—every field Ari sees is bursting with healthy crops; every river and stream babbles merrily with clean water; and the worst storms of the season have subsided nearly as quickly as they arrived. Even the mass graves are peaceful, the resentful spirits ordinarily clustered around such places having long been handled in some fashion or another.

Regardless of the reason, seeing her homeland restored lifts Ari’s spirits considerably. Occasionally, she’ll split from the herd to go exploring on her own. She can’t bring Techa on these trips without scaring the locals, so she wanders the streets on foot for a while and catches up with the convoy later. Techa is clever enough to stay with the pack whether she has a rider or not, so Ari doesn’t have to worry about stashing her somewhere out of sight, and with her Bloodflame-augmented body, covering a significant distance quickly is no trouble.

Mostly she pokes around in the markets, buying snacks and little trinkets for the kids (and sometimes her creed siblings). In one town, she’s fortunate enough to find a bookseller with a collection of sordid romances; she eagerly purchases several of these for herself and squirrels them away in the bottom of her pack. On the days she’s gone, she quietly entrusts Ranan to Ambren, who has alwaysaccepted his brotherly duties as a matter of course.

Still, one evening after everyone has bedded down, her keen ears catch a quiet strain of conversation from the tent next to hers. It’s honestly impressive that she manages it because Tselai snores fit to wake the dead.

“You don’t have to keep hanging out with me,” Ranan starts awkwardly. “When Sahan isn’t here. I… I know your friends don’t like me. I don’t want…” He mumbles a bit, then says, “You can just stay with them. I’ll be fine.”

Ari can imagine the expression on Ambren’s face, and judging by the tone of his voice when he finally speaks, she thinks she was pretty close. “Ranan, you’re my friend too.”

Simple, quick, devastating. A super-effective strike!

Clearly lost for words, it’s a moment or two before Ranan says, “You don’t have to lie!” He sounds frustrated. “I know you don’t really have a choice. You’re the senior, so you have to take care of us.”

Ambren sighs softly. “I do try to take care of you two. I don’t always succeed. It’s part of my duties, yes, but it’s also something I want to do.” There’s a pause, and the sound of shuffling fabric. When Ambren begins talking again, his voice is even quieter. “You’re not a burden. Not to me or to Sahan. We want to help you because we care about you, but we can’t do that if you don’t let us know when you need it.”

Ranan’s voice is unmistakably misty when he replies. “...Do you… mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

“You really… really want to be my friend?”

There’s a smile in Ambren’s voice. “If that’s what you want, then yes. I’d like that.”

“I-I’d like that too! A lot! I think you’re—you’re really great, Adaihe!”

Ambren laughs. “I think you’re really great too, Ranan. But we should get some rest.”

They almost manage it until Ranan speaks up again a few minutes later. “Will Tselai be mad if I ride with you when Sahan isn’t here?”

Usually when he talks about his rival/roommate, his voice is much more strident, but now he sounds… uncertain.

“Tselai…” Ambren hesitates. “Tselai is too concerned about what other people think of him. He’ll get over it.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry about it, Ranan. You can ride with me if you want.”

Ari’s heart is full to bursting when she finally falls asleep. The next day, she spots Ranan riding alongside his creed brothers, his face pinched with an anxiety that slowly eases as Ambren effortlessly shields him from the criticism of the other disciples with his patented Older Brother Who’s Just Disappointed In You look. Tselai looks mutinous, but surprisingly, when one of the ruder boys jeers at Ranan openly, he’s the first to whirl around and snap, “You can’t even beat him in the class rankings! Who are you mocking?!”

***

On the sixth day of their journey, Ari is invited to ride in the Matrons’ carriage after Mother Mouse decides she’s sick of being cooped up and trades Ari her spot for Techa. The carriage’s interior is spacious and exceedingly comfortable; the benches are padded with blue velvet cushions, the windows are covered in blue velvet drapes, and a small wooden table laden with a small tea set, a bowl of fresh fruit, a pack of cards, and a stack of books separates the two sides.

Matron Tanavi, Kachai Coven’s master of the Bloodflame, is the first to greet Ari when she enters the carriage. On the outside, she looks far less like a fierce warrior than she does someone’s stern auntie. She’s short and plump, her ordinary but not unappealing face lined with age, and the auburn hair pulled back from her scalp in a no-nonsense bun is streaked with gray.

“Why, Preceptor, you smell like roses,” she says dryly, fanning herself with the book in her hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sneaking off to the baths in town by yourself?”

Ari winks wordlessly and takes a peek at the book’s title. “Ooh. The Lord’s Hunted Concubine? By Jalia Nshanzi? Good one. The leading man’s a little dull, though. The villain is way hotter.”

Matron Tanavi scoffs. “Doesn’t he keep the main character locked in his dungeon for half the book?”

“Exactly.”

Matron Tanavi shakes her head with a faint smile. Even though Ari, as a master of the same Exalted Art, could technically be considered her greatest rival and the biggest threat to her position, the two of them have always gotten on like flame and kindling. This is partly because Ari is completely devoid of ambition for a matron’s responsibilities, partly because Matron Tanavi is an eminently reasonable sort of woman, and partly because they both have the same taste in trashy literature.

Next to Matron Tanavi, an incredible beauty sighs theatrically, flicking her long tawny hair with one manicured hand (her hair, incidentally, also smells like roses).

“I just don’t understand the appeal of a rude man,” Matron Rusala complains, her full, petal-pink lips pulled into a pout. “Why would anyone want some boor who treats you like a pauper?”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Ari laughs. Matron Rusala’s husband is as far from villainous as it’s possible to get—he’s a gentle, kind-hearted, lovably dumb mage of exceedingly mediocre talents who happens to also be filthy rich. He’s nice to look at, friendly to speak to, and generous with his excessive fortune. A great catch for an apex man-eater! Of course, even without her astounding good looks, Matron Rusala is also a master of the Beguiling Flame—if she wants a man badly enough, she certainly has the tools to reel him in.

“What?” Ari teases. “You’ve never gotten fluttery when someone attractive acts a bit mean to you?”

“No,” Matron Rusala answers resolutely.

“Ohhh,” the matron next to Ari begins, smiling innocently. She’s young, fresh-faced, and pretty in a more forgettable way. Her light brown hair is braided simply over her shoulder, and her darker brown eyes dance with mischief. Matron Jairani, master of the Ravaging Flame. “So that’s why you keep bothering Enahi-azim, is it?”

Ari’s smile drops dramatically.

The carriage erupts into laughter.

From the seat opposite Matron Jairani, a skeletal hand held together with unnaturally dark tendons extends towards Ari holding an open leather flask. The liquid inside is dark and fragrant. The hand swirls the flask, and the pleasant aroma of spiced wine tickles her nostrils.

“Go on,” a raspy, immaterial voice whispers between her ears. “No one’s spit in it yet.”

In the dim carriage interior, the two pale pinpricks of light in the skeleton’s empty eye sockets shine like distant, creepy stars. A wooden pipe puffing sacred smoke hangs jauntily from one side of its jaw, and the rest of its body is wrapped in standard matronly attire.

None of the disciples have ever seen Mother Misery’s true face. She usually wears the skin of a grizzled old woman, short-haired and ravaged with burn scars. As the coven’s master of the Pale Flame, she has relatively few adepts under her wing, and she’s always disdained teaching. Ari can only admire her frank laziness.

Ari eyes the flask. “If I spit in it, do you think I could still convince Enahi-girhe to take a drink?”

Tanavi-azim shakes her head disapprovingly, but Jairani-azim grins and waggles her eyebrows. “Wanna swap spit with her, huh?”

Ari glowers at her as she snatches up the flask and takes a generous swig. It burns nicely going down, and the resulting flush on her face is good camouflage.

“Anyone clapped eyes on Preceptor Lenara lately?” Mother Misery asks. “She’s not dead out there, is she?”

“Just brooding,” Jairani-azim says with a shrug. “I think she’s mad that all of Ari-sahan’s disciples were invited and only half of hers made it.”

Ari rolls her eyes skyward. “She has ten disciples! Half of hers still outnumber mine! Honestly, where does she find the time for them all…”

“Well, she doesn’t spend half her days reading books like that, for a start,” Matron Rusala says pointedly, eyeballing the one in Matron Tanavi’s hand.

“I don’t either!” Ari protests. “Do you know how often the Head Preceptor sends for me to re-align some acolyte’s pneumatic system because they overextended themselves?!”

“Is it as often as you take naps in the Queen’s Garden because you know no one else is willing to step foot in there?” Jairani-azim asks mildly.

“Piss off!”

The rest of the morning passes in relative peace. The matrons pass the time by playing card games, snacking, reading, and bickering idly. Ari munches on so many pomegranate seeds she’s halfway afraid a garden of them will sprout in her gut.

Unfortunately, the peace doesn’t last.

Mother Misery notices the commotion first. Ari has pulled out one of her new smut rags to read, and so she doesn’t realize something’s wrong until Mother Misery tugs the curtain on her window aside.

“Hmm,” that otherworldly voice hums. “Seems something has the Lašar Commander in quite a tizzy.”

Ari perks up eagerly at this. “Oh?”

“Look for yourself.” Mother Misery pulls the curtain open wider and leans back, giving Ari a mostly clear view outside the carriage.

A bit ahead of them, Matron Enahi and Grand Matron Hvasira ride side-by-side. This has been the arrangement for most of their trip, but now there’s a pair of bloodless-looking scouts speaking to the Commander in low, urgent voices. Even their barghests look spooked; their eyes are wild and their ears are flat against their skulls.

Ari’s earlier excitement at the thought of Enahi-girhe running into some suitably humorous trouble fades. Without a second word, she pops the carriage door open and vaults out.

“Hey!” Jairani-azim protests, “At least close the door properly!” But Ari is already striding towards the familiar chestnut-colored figure of her barghest. She jogs to keep pace with Techa’s long legs, sending a beseeching smile at the matron currently in her saddle.

“I’m so sorry, Mother Mouse, but do you mind if I take her back for a bit?”

The lanky, fretful woman blinks down at her. “I-I… Well, I don’t see why not… Is something wrong?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Ari says easily. She graciously helps the matron dismount. Mother Mouse is no martial expert; she’s the master of the Cleansing Flame and a healer first, foremost, and entirely. Techa is a very good polite girl and stands still as stone as Ari and Mother Mouse swap places. By the time she retakes the reins, Enahi is already splitting off from the Grand Matron, spurring Qovar into a swift, graceful canter.

Ari clicks her tongue and urges Techa to keep pace, leaving the poor, bewildered Mother Mouse behind to make her own travel arrangements.

The second she draws into earshot of Enahi, the younger matron whips around with a fierce,soundless snarl. “Turn around, mutt. I’ve no desire to mind you right now.”

“Mm, I don’t think so,” Ari replies simply. Techa pulls even with Qovar, her tail wagging excitedly at the prospect of a hunt. “Where are we going?”

Matron Enahi stares at her. “Are you dull? Turn around.”

“Nope.” She smiles smugly at Matron Enahi, who has very little real authority over her and who can’t waste time chasing her off. “I just wanted to keep you company, Girhe. I thought you’d be excited! You seemed so eager to spend time with me before.”

Enahi sputters with silent rage and then spits out, “Rot, then.”

Flounce.

Qovar picks up speed until he’s moving at a gallop. Techa falls into step behind him, Ari grinning all the while. Matron Enahi seems determined to ignore her and with the wind whistling in their ears there’s no point throwing barbs at each other anyway. Ari simply keeps her head down and her senses open as they ride, the creamy curl of the highway disappearing over rolling hills, through stands of broadleaf trees and clinging underbrush.

It’s some fifteen or twenty minutes later when she first detects a disturbance in the Aether. Ari closes her eyes and shuts out the world, sharpening that sixth sense. To her, the Aether usually feels like a cool, lazy stream swirling around her ankles, its eddies and currents steady and predictable. But there’s something violent thrashing in the distance, something massive enough to send ripples far downstream. She frowns.

A rift. That’s… weird in a bad way. Small rifts in the Amnion can open naturally, or more commonly as a result of excessive arcane interference, but this isn’t a small one. This is big enough to be intentional. Small rifts are inconvenient but not especially dangerous if addressed quickly. Large rifts… well. Sometimes things slip through.

“Enahi-girhe!” Ari calls.

Enahi ignores her.

“Enahiiii.”

Silence.

“Enahi-šaaaaaa~”

“What?!” Enahi finally explodes over her shoulder.

Ari blinks innocently. “You didn’t hear me the first time? Enahi-girhe, you should know, there’s a rift up ahead.”

The matron swears, but she knows better than to doubt Ari’s Aethersight. “It’s still open?”

“Mm. It’s a pretty big one.” Ari raises her voice. “What exactly did your scouts report?”

Enahi deliberates for a moment, clearly deciding whether or not it’s worth disclosing vital information to the pest latched onto her leg, but finally she callsback, “Greater demonic activity near a human settlement. Multiple casualties and significant property damage.”

Huh.

“What kind of demon?”

“They didn’t know.”

Ari’s frown deepens. Whatever her personal issues with Enahi, she can acknowledge that her Lašar sentinels are no slouches. They’re well-versed in diabolism; identifying and containing even unusual demonic entities shouldn’t be a problem for them. Even a single pair of scouts should have been able to dispatch most minor to moderate threats, which means whatever they’re about to face is something far more dangerous than she’d ordinarily expect to see in such a rural area.

It usually takes multiple witches to hold open a rift large enough to admit a greater demon into the world, or some terrible calamity or massive loss of life that thins the Amnion to the point of substantial tearing. But as far as she’s aware, there are no covens in this area, and there haven’t been any disasters, natural or otherwise.

Rogue witches, maybe? They crop up every now and then, but generally rogues don’t last very long—they tend to be addled from Calamitous Blooms. She wouldn’t expect any rogues to be strong enough, coordinated enough, or intelligent enough to open a summoning rift. And even if there were rogues who could be all of those things… why here??? On the ride over, they haven’t passed anything more exciting than a sheep pasture.

She doesn’t have much longer to wonder. As they crest the top of the next hill, Enahi suddenly jerks Qovar to a halt, and Ari steers Techa around to avoid smacking into him. Both of them stare grim-faced at the scene below.

There certainly is a rift, and it certainly is big. A weeping gash in reality some fifty feet tall and at least as wide stains the air, the world’s lifeblood oozing out onto the grass below in steaming silvery pools of compacted anima. Before it is a village—or what would have passed for a village perhaps an hour ago. Everywhere she looks, there is devastation. Billowing walls of violet flame, wooden shacks reduced to no more than splinters, partially-consumed people and livestock littering the ground, the roofs, the bowed-out walls. There are two figures moving unhurriedly through the wafting smoke, as though searching for something, but the rather larger problem is currently hunched over a barn with its roof torn away, plucking out bleating, terrified goats with surprisingly dexterous clawed fingers.

Its head looks… a bit like a horse’s skull with part of the skin peeled off, the rest falling from the exposed bone in wet lappets. This demon might have even been a horse at some point, for some of its yellowed teeth are still flat and square, more fit for chewing grass than flesh. The rest, however, are as long and sharp as swords and smeared with blood and viscera. The rest of the form is undeniably humanoid, but… it doesn’t appear to really have skin or organs or… whatever, just… a bunch of bones haphazardly melded together by the guiding hands of the living darkness clinging to its body. That darkness is so thick she can’t see through it, and oddly… wet-looking. It dribbles and smears across the demon’s bones but leaves no trail behind it.

Ari apologizes internally to the scouts she inadvertently doubted earlier. She doesn’t know what the hell this thing is either.

There are eyes sunken deep into that half-naked skull, rancid dried-blood red and mad with hunger. Those eyes must be fully functional, because they roll up to regard the two figures atop the hill. The demon stops totally to stare at them, one frantic goat still screaming in its grasp.

“Ahhhh shit,” Ari mutters.

The demon slams the goat down to the ground with a wet, horrible squelch. Then it opens its enormous jaws and howls, spraying bright-hot violet embers in a plume.

The two figures in the smoke stop as well, turning slowly to regard the newcomers. Ari can’t make outmuch, but they’re masked and cloaked in a way that’s horrendously familiar.

Seda had worn garb like that once.

“Enahi!” she bellows. “Take the casters. I’ve got that… thing.”

She leaps off Techa in one move and sends her sprinting back towards the treeline at the bottom of the hill with a smack to the flank.

“You idiot! Wait!” Enahi snaps.

But Ari is already taking off towards the demon, Varul hissing and juddering at her side.