Gods of Light & Shadow

[Catherine Rivet]

Gods is yet another experimental piece: a work of high fantasy blended with ancient mythology and modern politics. Adam Peyton, history scholar and story-teller extraordinaire relays a tale of magic, love and betrayal only for his captive audience to realize that the 'fairy stories' are in fact reality and that the world is in danger from forces beyond their control.

Excerpts following are in no particular order.

[Catherine Rivet]

The hushed murmurs silenced the moment that Tancos entered the audience hall, every eye falling on him with unvoiced concern. But no one made move to indicate to him what there was, precisely, to be concerned about. For there was something to be concerned about indeed, if the entirety of the Court seemed to think he oughtn't to hear about it.

Instinctively, he allowed his eyes to travel down the length of the room to where Kel was seated upon the throne in conference with Lords Saleh and Mekhar. It was obvious from their disheveled appearance, windswept, disarrayed hair, gritty faces, and chalky-hued djellaba that they'd only just arrived from the Holy City, and had been traveling by Gate and in haste. Through the Wadi Gate, likely as not, given the amount of sand and ash clinging to every inch of skin and hair and clothing. Through a Gate it had been made clear from the beginning was to be traversed only in direst emergency, because it traced its origins to an ancient conflagration of power that had destroyed half the planet and the gods alone knew what horrors from days of old yet dwelt within...

Tancos had known for some time of the trouble stirring, and the reemergence of the insurgent group which called itself the Red Hand and purported to be 'protecting the interests' of the citizenry of the Holy City from the barbarian infidels of the North. They were an inconvenience to be sure, and a pain to deal with even on the best of days. But surely the situation didn't merit the sending of two of the three highest-ranking Falah'dan by Gate to seek an Imperial audience. Did it...?

"...tell him?"

Kel's voice scarcely broke a whisper, and it was clear that the question, half-formed as it was and surprisingly loud in the stillness of the room, had not been intended for Tancos's ears. Unusual, that: In the not-quite-century they'd known each other, Kel had never kept a secret from him, regardless of how painful it might be. Tancos found himself suddenly glad that Csillag was away in the North to study the history of his forebearers with his grandsire; if these strange silences forebode a confrontation, he would rather the child not bear witness.

Increasing his pace, Tancos made his way up the silent audience hall beneath the scrutinizing gaze of half the nobility of the capital, the luxurious silk of his layered robes a gentle rustling against the stones...like the hiss of a serpent in the moment before it strikes. His single-minded approach acknowledged no one: characteristic indeed, considering that unlike the Emperor, Tancos had been raised to one day assume a position of authority; the Court had long since grown accustomed to his sweeping into rooms unannounced and leaving absolute chaos in his wake.

Not that it had stopped them from staring--or glaring--at the breach in protocol. He knew what they muttered behind his back (desert rat, half-breed), and he'd long ago learned to ignore them. He'd been--was still--if only in title, an assassin. By the names of all the dark gods! He refused to be cowed by these noble-born, city-dwelling busybodies around him who thought to have the ear of the Emperor.

As if Kel ever followed anyone's advice but his own!

Tancos snorted indelicately at the thought, inclinded his head in greeting to his Falah'dan. Then locked his steady gaze upon the Emperor's own, fathomless onyx to burning gold in a monumental meeting of opposite wills. To anyone else, such a look from either man might be enough to drive them away as if struck, or crush them to their knees, such was the power they held; but between these who had basked for so long in the presence of one another's auras, it was an old game--and one which Tancos knew from the start that he would win. Even from those early days, when he had been but a child and only half Kel's age, Kel had never been able to deny him. He would not deny him now...

"Ah, Tancos..."

Feigned innocence. Tancos had to resist the urge to smile, for anyone who didn't truly know the Emperor as he himself did would have fallen for the trick indeed. But Tancos knew better: Knew that behind the facade of naivette the charismatic barkeep-come-Emperor often projected was a mind easily as quick and cunning as Tancos's own. Tancos's eyes flashed.

"Y'ammas." Just a single word, but one with so much meaning--particularly when Tancos chose to voice it with such icy disdain. Names, after all, held power, and Tancos was foremost among those few possessed the right to address the Emperor by his birth-name rather than the more traditional 'Imperial' name he'd assumed with along with the throne. The only one in truth to have always had that right. For Tancos to choose so deliberately not to exercise it, and in such a manner...

Kel understood. With a silent nod he backed down, gesturing with a single calloused hand to his audience that they disperse. Clearly he too was expecting some sort of scene--and preferred that there be no witnesses. Just as well, for it was rare indeed that the pair of them should quarrel in private, let alone in public... "Dismissed."

Murmurs resumed, this time more in discontent than anything else. The nobles, it seemed, had been expecting a most spectacular blow-up from one or the other of them, something to gossip about in their parlors over the evening wine: the Emperor and his Caithdein reduced to children squabbling in a schoolyard. But neither man was willing to give them the satisfaction. Tancos noted that in spite of this the crowd managed to process in a somewhat orderly manner out of the audience chamber--presumably to head home. He knew, of course, that it was by far more likely they were to the taverns instead, to spark off yet another round of rumors.

Ah, well. It wasn't as if he hadn't dealt with rumors before. Rather directly.

But time and Mekhar, First Dagger of the Falah'd, waited for no man. Not for the Emperor who'd held his loyalty for the past ninety-some years since the breaking of the seige at the gates of the Holy City had tested beyond all doubt the mettle of those who would become the Throne's Inner Circle: had tempered them like steel in the forge, or gold tested by fire. Not even for the very Prince whom Mekhar had been raised from birth to serve. There was a quick glance to Kel, then Saleh, who both seemed to support whatever decision had just been made in the intervening silence.

And then in unison, the two Falah'dan flowed to their feet.

"Greetings, Falah'din."

Holy One.

Only sheer force of will kept Tancos from crying out, from demanding an answer to the question he could not yet bring himself to voice. There was but one way on this world or any other for the title to have come to him. And that...was if his father was dead. He managed a nod. "First Dagger, High Mage." Then fixed his attention firmly back on Kel. "Would someone be so kind as to tell me what in the gods' names is going on, that everyone is avoiding me like the pestilence...?"

Kel winced. "I think you should sit down."

Sit down? For certain, Antal's death had been sudden, but not entirely unexpected. He was nearing his 400th year after all; and that was rather old for an assassin, even one of the bloodline of Karashimesh, and who was also a mage of no small power... "I think I'll stand."

"I really think you should sit," Kel said again, an expression something akin to pain flickering across his face. This time, Mekhar and Saleh nodded their agreement.

Tancos crossed his arms over his chest, tapped a booted foot upon the stone floor; the gesture set his braids swishing. Annoyed by his earlier reception, thrown further off-balance by the implicit announcement of his father's death, he had little patience left--even with Kel--for such triviality.

"Y'ammas."

It emerged as a growl. But this time, it failed to have the desired effect. Rather, Kel rose from the throne, his own expression torn: haggard and world-weary beyond belief. And that same calloused hand which had but a moment before dismissed courtiers and nobles with such careless regard reached out to Tancos with--dare he even think it--tenderness. "Tan'i..."

Tancos's breath caught in his throat. That name, that tone... Naught but absolute desperation could draw such a response from a man of Kel's demeanor, to give voice to such a vunerability; the last time had been so very many years ago, in the Temple at Meanar before the insane High Priest who had very nearly killed them both for the prophecy which even then hung over their heads. But before Tancos had the chance to regain his equilibrium, the Emperor continued.

"There was...trouble last night down south," Kel said, his deep voice suddenly so low that Tancos had to strain to hear. "Someone unleashed high sorcery against the walls of Idiyan..."

"...which are warded against magic with a'saer." All pretense of color fled from Tancos's face, as he realized what must have happened. Anyone with half a brain knew that magic and a'saer were anathema to each other; that was why it was used in anti-magic wards, for gods' sake! The last time such a blending had occured, it had obliterated the city of Karashimesh entire. "Oh gods, Kel!" The words escaped him on a breath, pieces of the puzzle suddenly clicking to place within his mind. "Why...?"

What was to be gained in destroying the Holy City...? There had been--so far as Tancos knew--no command given, no action taken on the part of Idiyan's civilians that would justify such an excessive use of force. And even if there had been reason to use force, Kel would never have sanctioned such sacrilege. Not against those he counted as his most steadfast allies. Not against his Caithdein's own people...

No. Kel wouldn't have. Tancos knew that as surely as he knew his own mind. And only one other person on the continent had the resources, the motive, and the authority to issue such an order: Tancos's own twin.

Quietly, he swore. Lady of the Thrones, indeed. Sister or no sister, blood or no blood between them, that accursed woman had meddled enough. Had crossed a line not meant to be crossed. Betrayed her people, her kin. If it was going to take her death to avert a war, well... Tancos could deal with that. "Prepare the horses," he snapped. "This has gone quite far enough."

They had called him 'Death-Dancing-in-Shadows' then, in the days before Kel and the Empire. Soon, all of Askarte was going to remember why.

[Catherine Rivet]

Joseph Dawes slammed into the kitchen of the safehouse at a quarter past three the following morning, curses on his breath and fire in his eyes in spite of clearly not having slept since well before the Empress's dual attack on the bar and the Yewes Ser Motherhouse the preceding evening. Adam glanced from his beer to his oldest mortal friend; Joseph stared back, expression unforgiving.

"Really, Old Man?" the District Director of the Yewes Ser muttered. "A living legend, I suppose you'll say. And how many other of the old tales are true, dare I ask...?"

The young immortal shrugged, attempted a grin, but failed at his usual good humor. "Ah... The names were changed to protect the innocent...?"

"The names were..." Joseph swore again. "Adam, your 'fictional' Empress and her Consort are trying to take over the world, you've a pack of assassins tearing up the countryside trying to find you, and a man just changed into a dragon in the middle of my bar. If your secrets are going to get me killed, I think I have a right to know!"