Chapter 449: An Impossible Sight
An hour ago
LYRA DREIDE
I paused in my rush from one task to the next, drawing in a deep, fortifying breath.
The sun was hanging over the mountains to the west, its final rays still warm. The near-constant breeze that blew across the wasteland had died down, lessening the fine cloud of ash that always hung in the air. It was a perfectly pleasant day, and yet I found it almost painful to relax, the effort straining against my body’s urge to continue checking items off my list as fast as possible.
My duties had pulled me from one minor emergency to the next for two days straight, and I hadn’t had even a brief reprieve in what felt like hours. Closing my eyes, I turned my face toward the sun, letting its warmth touch my face. A shiver ran through me…built-up tension seeking a release.
I felt my lips curve into a smile.
This…this is what being a leader is. This is what I could have been doing my whole life, if only I’d known…
Being looked up to, respected, even—dare I say—loved…it was addicting, even more than the constant climb for power and authority had been before.
Watching Seris work, working alongside her as we helped our people to come to terms with their new lives, was satisfying in a way I had never understood before. It gave me hope. It also, perhaps more than anything else, made me glad that Arthur Leywin hadn’t killed me in Etistin. I couldn’t help but second guess myself at first, but now…
It was clear I had made the correct decision.
As I let the sun kiss my skin, I felt the sharp sensation of eyes burning into my back.
Letting my eyes ease open, I slowly turned and searched for the watcher. He wasn’t difficult to spot: a skinny bespectacled boy was sitting on the edge of a farm bed, now staring intently at his knees.
Slowly, he tried to sneak a quick look up, caught me watching him, went red, and stared hard at the ground.
My curiosity piqued, I started in the boy’s direction, my movements unrushed in a way that I was already unaccustomed to. I felt a little bad as I watched him begin to panic, likely fearing a scolding or worse. He was one of the new arrivals, but I didn’t know him or which blood he belonged to. By the tension with which he held himself and the fact that he was isolated when everyone else was hard at work, I suspected he was here alone, perhaps even a lower-class resident of the Relictombs’ second level who snuck through during Seris’s exodus.
I stood over him, my arms crossed, lips pursed slightly. “Have I wronged you, boy?” I asked. “You’re staring as if you’ve sworn a blood oath of vengeance on me.” Cocking my head slightly, I added, “Considering everything, I suppose that is possible.”
He flinched, glanced up at me, looked away, looked back again, then pulled his legs up to his chest and seemed to shrink.
I relaxed, softening my expression and stance. “At ease, child. I only meant to startle some good humor out of you. Why don’t we start again? I’m sure you know my name already, but I’m Lyra. Who are you?”
He chewed the inside of his lip, the spinning gears of his thoughts visible in his eyes, then finally hopped to his feet and bowed. “I’m sorry, retainer Lyra of Highblood Dreide. I didn’t mean to stare. I just…” He swallowed heavily. “I’m Seth of Highblood Milview.”
Milview…Milview? I rolled the name around, searching for any connection to it. I was slightly surprised to hear him name himself as a highblood, but less so that I didn’t know anything about the name.
“Where is the rest of your blood then?” I asked, eager to ensure bloods weren’t being separated as they were relocated away from the small settlement where they had arrived, which could not support all of them.
The boy’s face sank, and I realized the truth. “You’re all alone, then?” I asked. “Was your blood lost in the war?”
He nodded, a very slight, nervous movement, then sank back onto the wooden border of the raised farm bed. “They were all killed…here.” He waved a hand at the ashlands beyond the small village. “Recently elevated blood…because of something my sister did in the war. And then wiped away, just like that.”
I sat next to him, considering my words carefully. “You never felt like a highblood, did you?”
He shook his head. “Not really. The others at the academy…well, they didn’t treat me like I was their equal. Not until…” He swallowed heavily. “Not until Professor Grey…Arthur.”
“Ah,” I said, recalling what little I had learned of Arthur Leywin’s time hidden in Alacrya. “You are one of his students, then. Is that why you came to Dicathen? To follow your mentor?”
“No!” he said, too quickly. Blanching, he glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “I mean, I just didn’t have anywhere else to go. Scythe Seris wanted to know more about my bestowals, me and my friend, and I just thought, well, maybe here at least I could do…something?” He shrugged rather helplessly. “I didn’t think I could return to my blood’s home or the academy. Not after everything.”
I pressed my lips into a tight smile, not saying anything else. Clearly the boy needed to talk, and I was prepared to let him. At least, with what little time I had to spare.
He hopped up again and took a couple steps away, facing the gray wasteland to the north. “Why did Circe have to die just for…that?” he asked. “She died mapping a way through it, that’s what we were told. But now look at it. She died for nothing.”
Milview…
The name settled into place in my mind, bringing back a report received ages ago. A large number of Sentries had been tasked with charting a path through the enchanted forests of the elves, and it had been a young and talented Sentry named Circe of Named Blood Milview who had finally succeeded where her peers had failed.
“Many died needlessly in this war,” I said, still sitting. “The asura are heedless with lesser lives. But, perhaps…” I paused, letting the words hang. “Perhaps their deaths aren’t for nothing if they show us that the world needs to change. If they motivate us to make that very change. That seems to me like a more worthy cause to fight for.”
The boy didn’t respond, and my attention was drawn to an approaching figure. Anvald of Named Blood Torpor’s broad shoulders and shaved scalp were obvious even from a distance.
I stood and stretched, feeling my brief reprieve coming to an end. “I could use the assistance of a motivated young mage,” I said, resting my hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder. “If you are willing. And I’m sure we can find time for you to continue to help Seris in her research as well.”
He stared at me, his eyes wide and watery. Clearing his throat, he removed his glasses and wiped the back of his arm across his face. “Uh, sure,” he said, fumbling the thick lenses back over his eyes.
Anvald came to a stop several feet away, looking grim. “Lady Seris has requested your presence, Lyra.”
I didn’t bother asking what this was about. The fact that Seris was requesting me meant it had to do with some conflict between the new arrivals and those Alacryan soldiers who had been consigned to the Elenoir Wastes by Regent Leywin.
“Come along then, assistant,” I said, only a little flippantly. Although I didn’t look back, I heard Seth’s halting footsteps behind me. “What is it now, Anvald? Some new construction interrupting a used-to-be highblood’s view of the endless ashy wastes?”
Anvald snorted. “Ah, better that I do not color your view of the matter.”
Curious, I followed the ascender in silence until we reached the open doorway of the village meeting hall, a small, slapdash building we had left empty for meetings and such, just to make things feel a little more officious.
Anvald stepped aside and waved me in. As I stepped through, my eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light, but I began to make out what sounded like a long-running argument.
“—blood Vassere lacks the standing to claim authority over Highblood Ainsworth soldiers,” the strong voice of an older man was saying. “We have few enough left. I won’t have them drawn off to other duties when they should be protecting me, my wife, and my heir, do you understand? After everything we’ve done for this movement, everything we’ve sacrificed, to now be asked to bend the knee to this…this…”
I squinted slightly, and my eyes adjusted enough to see Baldur Vassere try and fail not to roll his eyes. “I’m not—ugh, surely, Scythe Seris, you can see that I’m only trying to—”
“Again, I’d like to remind everyone that blood station carries no weight at all in this new nation of Alacryans,” Corbett of Highblood Denoir interrupted.
No, just Corbett Denoir, I reminded myself, the thought reinforced by the man’s own words.
“As of two days ago, we all agreed to move forward as equals,” he finished.
I moved to flank Baldur, whom I had worked with closely since this prison-turned-refuge was formed for the Alacryan soldiers. Arthur himself had put Baldur in charge of rounding up the first Alacryans from the armies around Blackbend and guiding them into the wasteland.
Seth didn’t follow, but lingered next to the door.
Seris’s brows rose slightly as she addressed my arrival. “Some of those who came with me have questioned Baldur Vassere’s leadership, Lyra. I believe Ector here suggested that a ‘second-tier cousin of a second-tier highblood’ had no right to be giving orders to such potent highbloods as Frost and Ainsworth. It strikes me that this is, perhaps, exactly the right time to see some proof of this new societal concept of ours…one in which the ‘purity’ of one’s blood, as determined by the Vritra, is not in fact the end-all be-all of one’s worth.”
I nodded in understanding. “The leaders of this society must be people who have earned the right through action, who their peers look to as leaders willingly, with acceptance, hope, and most of all, trust. Baldur Vassere has been that leader here. It was he who laid the foundations for the earliest encampments, gathering the defeated, despondent, furious remains of the Alacryan army and keeping them from imploding long enough to form a pipeline for food and water, as well as build a handful of ramshackle structures to keep the sun from baking them.”
I met the eyes of those around me in turn: Ector Ainsworth, Lars Isenhaert, Corbett Denoir, a mage by the name of Udon Plainsrunner who worked closely with Baldur, and Baldur himself, who turned to give me a weak smile.
“For your entire lives, you have held up shields of worry and paranoia, considering the implication of even the smallest interactions with other highbloods as you struggled to make space for yourselves and your bloods—your families—in the midst of the never-ending feeding frenzy that was Alacryan politics.
“Now is the time to lay down those shields, gentlemen. You are no longer jockeying for position among your peers but working to ensure our collective survival,” I finished.
I shot Seris a glance to gauge her reaction, a reflexive motion I couldn’t help despite the message I’d just delivered to the others. It would take us all more than a couple of days to put aside a lifetime of hierarchy.
Ector Ainsworth crossed his arms and looked away. Lars seemed to be taking his cues from Ector, while Corbett Denoir had the look of one who was both eager and deeply tired. Udon and Baldur, both soldiers who were not used to this kind of politics, shuffled uncomfortably.
“Perhaps we could take this conversation out into the village,” I suggested, moving toward the doorway. I gestured for Seth to go through ahead of me. “There are others I would like to introduce you to, leaders among the people here. Not by virtue of their military station or bloodline, but by their hard work, talent, and self-sacrifice.”
Although the tension was still clear, especially from Ector, they all followed Seth and me out into the sunshine.
“Our mages with earth-affinity type runes have been invaluable,” I said, gesturing to the building we’d just left. “Along with the handful of mages in the wastes who had prior experience with the construction and conjuration of buildings. Perhaps you don’t recognize it now, but the simple act of building a few houses was completely essential for our success here, and we owe much to those who were instrumental in the process.”
Ector, Lars, and Corbett examined the structure unenthusiastically, clearly not enthralled by the explanation. I had to admit, the simple square building, formed of gray brick crafted from the ash, supported by timbers from the Beast Glades, and roofed with wavy interlocking tiles of colorless clay didn’t paint an idyllic picture, especially for those coming from huge mansions designed by Alacryans best architects and Imbuers, but function, in this case, was many times more important than form. In the end, I hoped only that they would see the purpose of the structures and the importance of the people behind them.
After giving them a moment to examine the building, I led them to a nearby patch of farmland, introducing them to Udon’s brother, Idir, a soldier previously stationed in Xyrus who was now one of our most proficient cultivators of fertile soil brought in from the Beast Glades.
“An entire army at our disposal, and yet we suffer for a lack of builders and farmers,” Lars murmured to Ector.
“On the contrary,” I chided, “we have more than enough of both. They only lack for training and practice. Thankfully, plenty of that is in supply for anyone willing to try their hand at something new.”
Lars shuffled uncomfortably and cleared his throat, but he apparently had nothingelse to say.
It was as we turned away from the plot of farmland that something in the air changed.
Seris sensed it first, her head snapping around to the south. Cylrit, who had been flanking her like a shadow, shifted quickly into a defensive stance in front of her. I followed the line of their serious stares into the trees of the Beast Glades. An instant later, it hit me as well.
An intensely potent mana signature, accompanied by a desperately crushing intent, was rushing toward us, flying over the wild tangle of forestland and growing stronger by the moment.
A ripple went through the gathered mages, wiping away all thought of the conversation we’d been having. But it wasn’t only the handful of us present. Idir and three others tended the farmland while dozens of Alacryans milled about, some carrying timber to new construction, others buckets of water, some only loitering, unsure what to do. Nearby, a handful of children were sitting with a girl with short golden hair as she taught them about magic.
They all felt it.
Beside me, Seth Milview grabbed my sleeve, his hands shaking.
As the pressure built, some couldn’t help but step back, reeling from the weight of it even at this distance. Others, I was worried to see, stumbled toward the signature, jaws slack and faces expectant, almost reverent. Hopeful.
Fools, I thought absently, my own internal voice distant and quiet, as if my mind had already retreated away from the approaching power.
Seris burst into action, taking command and issuing orders. “Ainsworth, Denoir, start gathering the bloods. Ensure people stay together, keep order, don’t allow a panic to sweep our number. Those who are already preparing to leave the village, get them moving. Vassere, organize a retreat into the wasteland. Anyone who remains here could be a danger to us or themselves. Split the village east and west, toward the next towns in line. Go!”
I took a few steps forward, pulling Seth with me as I squinted over the trees in search of the signature’s source. “There,” I said, although it came out barely a whisper.
A winged creature, massive and black and the night sky, flew into view, sweeping low over the trees. In seconds, it was wheeling above us, a harsh cry issuing from its enormous maw.
My mind reeled. A Vritra, in its fully transformed state…
To see a basilisk flying the skies of Dicathen…such a thing hadn’t been seen in Alacrya in my lifetime. Seeing one here, now…it seemed the height of impossibility.
All I could think was that Seris’s escape from the Relictombs had finally prompted Agrona to take extreme action and end our fledgling offshoot nation of soldiers and rebels.
With the suddenness of a falling catapult stone, the basilisk descended, landing half in one of the farm beds, its clawed feet churning the ground, ripping up the crops, and sending the farmers sprawling, their shouts nearly lost in the noise of the huge wings beating against the warm, late-afternoon air.
Seth stumbled and fell backwards, but I couldn’t pull my gaze away from the sight of the basilisk in front of me.
Even through my fear, it was truly a sight to behold.
Its body was a single long serpentine trunk plated with pitch-black scales and lined with spines from the end of its whiplike tail to the base of its thick neck. Six powerful limbs protruded from the long body, each ending in a claw tipped with talons like scythes, and four thin, leathery wings grew from above the forelimbs, now curled around the basilisk’s squirming body like a protective shield.
The reptilian head snapped side to side, glowering around at the village, its maw opening and closing to reveal the dark void of its gullet, the accompanying snap rending the air like the shattering of stone, the smell of raw meat and sulfur making my stomach churn.
Its tail witched back and forth, splintering a withered tree and scything over the heads of the paralyzed children.
Its blazing red eyes, four on each side of the elongated face, searched each and every person present.
Like it is deciding which of us to devour first, I couldn’t help but think.
But the basilisk’s aura was frantic and punishing, striking us like the incoming tide on a stormy morning. It was uncontrolled and wild, not the weaponized intent of a greater being but an untamed manifestation of…abject terror? It was difficult to conceive, especially with the weight of it crushing me to the spot.
Seris’s orders had not survived the basilisk's sudden landing, and I could no longer tell the difference between reverence and horror on the faces of those around me. All were frozen, every pair of eyes locked on the asura. No one moved at all.
No one except Seris, who strode forward, somehow unbent by the pressure.
The reptilian head, large enough to swallow ten lessers in a single strike, snapped around, all eight eyes focusing on her. “Scythe…” Its voice was like the blades of a saw ripping through hard wood and the shearing of metal beneath a hurricane wind.
Even Seris couldn’t entirely disguise her fear as she faced the basilisk, her stance too rigid, her chin raised too high. “Sovereign Oludari Vritra…”
I felt my stomach clench painfully. Not just any basilisk, but the Sovereign of Truacia. I had met him before, but didn’t recognize his mana in this form. But that wasn’t what made me feel on the verge of sickness.
There was no reason for a Sovereign to appear in Dicathen. The High Sovereign would not have sent Oludari to extinguish us, nor would Oludari have decided to take on such a task himself. It simply wasn’t the way things were done. The Sovereigns hardly ever left their own dominions. They were paranoid and possessive, ever watchful and guarded. With Oludari being the last of the Sovereigns, he should have been taking every precaution against…
The last of the Sovereigns…fleeing to Dicathen…
What does that mean? I asked myself, struggling to hold onto sense.
He began to transform, shrinking as the powerful limbs became arms and legs, the serpentine body condescending into the upright form of a man. Wings fell down behind his bent back, becoming a part of the dark battlerobes clinging to his thin frame. The pointed, gap-mawed face flattened until Oludari’s pale visage was recognizable, his ruby eyes staring at us, two spiraling horns pointing toward the sky above them.
Oludari, on the couple of occasions I had witnessed him in person, had been impassive and focused. Now, there was a manic wildness in his eyes that I couldn’t have imagined seeing from an asura, and his face was twisted with a fear so palpable and unexpected that it was difficult to look at, for seeing it made me want to bolt into the wastes and never look back.
Oludari surged forward, and I couldn’t help but stumble away, unable to keep my composure.
My senses left me as I struggled to understand what I was seeing. It looked, to my eyes, as if the Sovereign threw himself at Seris’s feet, his pale, shaking hands clawing at the legs of her robes. Bleating words scratched out of his throat and between his teeth, my mind knitting together their meaning with all the efficiency of a boiled egg.
“Scythe Seris…the last, I’m the last…going to kill me, too, I just know it! You must help me. Escape, return to Epheotus, but I can’t…the portal, the rift, I can feel it, but I cannot find it! You must help me, I…I command it! Please?”
