1 WEEK LATER
M eajqa Sai’Ess looked very much like his father.
I had seen him before, in passing, but never as close as this. He,
Max and I sat in the Palace drawing room for hours. The topic was, of course, the only one anyone was talking about this week:
What now?
That was a complicated question.
When we had sealed away the deep magic, everything created by it had simply… disappeared. Nura’s entire army of death, gone. From what Max and I pieced together from Moth and Sammerin’s accounts, that seemed to be enough to leave both the Arans and the Fey confused enough to re- evaluate what was happening. Meajqa and Luia, the two highest-ranking Fey leaders in the absence of Caduan, called back their troops into a tentative cease-fire when they realized that their king was missing.
Caduan’s body was found in Ilyzath—a place that now, as far as anyone could tell, was nothing but a stone building. The basement, where there had once been a strange sapling and a fragment of the sea, was empty, save for his body. Black veins spiderwebbed his entire body, including his face, though his eyes were closed as if he had simply drifted off to sleep. His hand was outstretched, as if he had been holding something, or someone.
Aefe was never found. Her body was gone.
I knew she had died. I felt that. It was the last whisper from a magic that had since disappeared. Max and I still had our natural Solarie and Valtain magics, respectively, but no longer had access to the strange, deep magic Reshaye had gifted us.
It stood to reason that Aefe’s body had disappeared, just as Nura’s corpse soldiers had. She, too, was a product of a magic that simply ceased to exist—and so, she ceased as well.
Whenever I thought about it, I couldn’t shake a pang of sorrow for reasons I couldn’t articulate. Perhaps because I knew what it felt like to be a ghost that left no mark on the world, even in death. And yet… she had left a mark, hadn’t she? She had made the hardest, bravest decision, and we all lived because of it.
For several tense days, the Arans and the Fey waited in tense anticipation. Everyone was afraid to even blink. Would the Fey think that we had murdered their king? Would they accept our offer of peace talks?
Finally, days later, Meajqa emerged as the de-facto leader of the Fey, and agreed to a discussion.
He looked so different now than he had the first time we saw him— locked up in the basement of the Towers in Nura’s laboratory, looking as if he was on the edge of death. When he sat down across the table from us and I got a good look at the horrific injury that had been inflicted upon his wing, I thought, Oh, no. We are going to walk out of this room at war all over again. He will never forgive us.
But, it turned out, I was not giving Meajqa enough credit. He was wary, yes, and distrustful of everything that we said. But he wanted peace.
He made that clear from the moment he sat down in this room with us. “I think,” he said, his accent like a rolling purr, “we have all lost too much already.”
Max and I wholeheartedly agreed.
Still, we talked in circles for several hours. What could we offer the Fey to show them that we meant no further harm? What could they offer us to assure us that they were not a threat? It was layers upon layers of double talk and doubt, until finally, I leaned forward and met Meajqa’s eyes directly. I allowed my magic to reach out to him—taste, however briefly, his emotions.
Exhaustion. Grief. Uncertainty. Just the faintest hint of anger.
But there was hope there, too. Hope that he might be able to lead his people out of this.
I knew every one of emotions all too well.
“I am going to be blunt, Meajqa,” I said. “I think that all of us want the same thing. But in order to get it, we will all need to learn to trust each other.”
The corner of Meajqa’s mouth twitched, and he lifted his chin slightly. “Ah, trust. So simple and yet so complex.”
The resemblance to his father in that moment was breathtaking. Max and I exchanged a glance, both struck by the same thing.
“You know…” This was a risk. “I knew your father well.” Pain flickered across Meajqa’s face, consuming that smirk.
“He was a good person,” I said, softly. “I’m in debt to him. And he spoke very highly of you.”
I couldn’t quite read his expression—perhaps hiding a shard of anger, like he thought I was lying to him.
“I see why now,” I said, “having met you myself. The fact that you are even discussing peace with us, after what you went through… that is courage.”
He made a sound that was almost a scoff. “I am surprised, myself.”
He rubbed his eyes—he was clearly tired. We all were. It had been a long, long week.
Max stood and went to the corner of the room. He returned with a carafe of wine and glasses.
“Do Fey drink?” he said to Meajqa.
For the first time, Meajqa smiled—a sharp, rueful thing. “Oh, we drink.”
“Wonderful.” He poured three glasses and then distributed them to us.
He raised his. “To surviving the week from hell.”
I took a sip. Max took a gulp. Meajqa drained half the glass.
Max set down his wine and leveled a steady stare at Meajqa. “Look. I like you, actually. I think you seem like you’re trying to do the right thing, and that counts for a lot, from my perspective. We’ve already told you that we can’t speak for all of our people. Tisaanah needs to talk to the rest of the leadership of the Threllian alliance. I don’t intend to keep this crown very long, so I need to talk to the rest of Ara’s leadership, too. I won’t lie and pretend that the two of us have more pull than we do. But, here’s what I can
say to you. We are fucking tired of war. I am, Tisaanah is, Ara’s council is, and this entire Ascended-damned world is. I think you are, too. Is that right?”
Meajqa’s eyebrow twitched, and he took another sip of wine with an expression that offered tacit agreement.
“I don’t blame you for not trusting us,” Max went on. “Not for a second. If I were you, I wouldn’t trust us either. Actually, as it stands, I’m not entirely sure that I trust you at all. But… after being surrounded by so much death, I’m willing to take a leap of faith. Are you?”
I reached across the table and offered him my hand. “We are willing to help create that trust with you, Meajqa Sai’Ess. Brick by brick. Day by day. There is nothing I can offer that will change things overnight. There is nothing I can say that will erase what you have already endured. But if you’re willing to work with us, we would be honored to build it alongside you.”
Meajqa regarded my hand stonily. He took another sip of wine. “What is the Aran word for this? Hm… naive.”
But then a slow smile curled his lips.
“We will try it anyway,” he said, and took my hand.
 |
THE NEGOTIATIONS WENT SO MUCH SMOOTHER after that. We hammered out a few measures that helped the Fey tentatively accept our good faith, and a few that would make it easier for our people to accept theirs. If everything was agreed among the Arans and the Alliance, then the Fey would be our allies—not close allies, of course, but there would, at least, be no more war.
I could work with that.
Max and I watched the Fey armada depart, leaving behind only a few diplomatic emissaries who remained to continue peace negotiations. Their ships were beautiful, with big, green sails that fluttered in the breeze. From the distance they looked like leaves skittering across the surface of a pond.
“You look terribly proud of yourself,” Max said. I glanced over to see my husband watching me with a bemused smirk on his face, and my heart leapt a little.
It did every time I looked at him, this last week. I didn’t know if he really realized exactly how close I came to losing him. It seemed like a miracle that he was with me at all.
He had scoffed when I had told him this, but I saw the way his stares lingered on me, too.
“I am proud of myself,” I said.
“You can’t take credit for all of that.”
“The Alliance is seven countries. Ara is only one. Which one of us is more important? Me, clearly.”
He rolled his eyes and heaved a long-suffering sigh. I scowled at him dramatically and the two of us turned back to the hallway. We had, of course, a thousand things to do.
“I’m proud of you, too,” Max said, at last, and when his hand brushed the small of my back, I leaned into that touch as if it was the most precious thing in the world.
|
HOPE POKED through the doubt like flowers sprouting in rubble. Still, the restoration came very, very slowly. The Capital city had been almost completely destroyed, especially near the coast. I was thankful that we had managed to evacuate as much of the city as we had, but still, so many were left without homes. Yes, we had managed to save our people, but victory was never free.
The days passed slowly but the weeks went fast. We cleared the remains. We mourned. We rebuilt. An endless cycle, repeated on big and small scales—hopefully, I prayed, for the last time.
A week after the Fey departed, Iya called an assembly of the Council of the Orders. The group gathered at the foot of the Tower ruins at sunrise, before the city had begun to wake. The worst of the debris had been cleared, but the Towers themselves were still merely shattered skeletons of what they once were.
“I called us here this morning to discuss an important topic.” Iya motioned to the wreckage surrounding us. “We must decide what will be done to the Towers, and how we will approach rebuilding efforts.”
“That’s easy,” Max said, without hesitation. “We won’t.”
Most of the councilors looked appalled at this idea. Iya, I noticed, looked significantly calmer.
“But— but the Orders need the Towers,” one of the councilors said, somewhat helplessly.
“What Orders?” Max said, gesturing to the pile of rubble. Two of the councilors’ jaws were literally hanging open. “What Orders?” Helena repeated, aghast.
“The Orders have been used to justify some truly reprehensible things. First of all, multiple coups.” Max raised a finger. “War crimes.” Another finger. “Torture.” A third. “Inciting of several wars, and—”
“We understand, Maxantarius,” a councilor mumbled, rubbing his temples.
“But you’re— you’re the Arch Commandant,” another said, somewhat helplessly.
“For now. Until I can get rid of the title. And in my opinion, the best way to get rid of it would be to throw the entire sorry thing out in the trash.”
I winced a little at his, as always, evocatively tactless choice of words.
He had floated this idea to me, several nights ago, as we lay tangled up in bed. Then, he’d been softer and more pensive—more uncertain. He’d been raised his entire life to see the Orders as the pinnacle of what he should aspire to be. It was not as easy as he was making it seem now to wipe all that away.
“But what could it possibly be after this?” he had said, that night. “What good could come from it? Look at what it had become even before this. Look at that they did to you, for fuck’s sake. And to the Fey Nura imprisoned. Even…”
“Even to you,” I said, quietly.
He just shook his head, too angry to keep speaking.
He was right about that. I’d been thinking it too, though I didn’t know how to voice it. As long as the Orders continued to exist, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to convince the Fey that we were not endorsing or repeating Nura’s actions. Even the Alliance was skeptical—the Orders, under Nura’s rule, had owned slaves, after all. The taint was everywhere.
Most of the Council saw our points, but still argued. It was no small thing to disband an institution so fundamental to their way of life.
“Once an organization sanctions that kind of torture,” I said, at last, “how can we continue to support it?”
Even the staunchest advocates of the Orders fell silent at that.
Even so, I understood the sadness etched on their faces. After the decision was made, I found myself returning long after nightfall. What had once been Ara’s most majestic landmark was now reduced to a heap of silver, gold, and glass. As I walked through the ruins, I picked up a book embossed with the sigil of the Orders—a sun and moon intertwined. As a slave, I had owned a similar book, learning Aran from its pages through countless nights of obsessive reading.
I had once believed so deeply in the Orders. “The end of an era.”
I turned at the sound of Iya’s voice. In the moonlight, he looked like a ghost, his gaze piercing through me.
“It is the right thing to do,” I said softly. “But it is still sad.”
“I’m surprised you feel that way. You never saw what the Orders once were.”
“I imagined them,” I replied, holding up the book with a small smile. “When I was a slave, these Towers were my dream.”
“I’m sorry for that, child. What a disappointment.”
Perhaps. Perhaps not. They failed me in many ways. Yet, that dream led me here, to this life.
“When I was a young man in a distant land, I dreamed of the Orders too,” Iya said. “I came to Ara because of them. It was better back then, but even then… they weren’t what they promised to be. When Araich and Rosira Shelane founded the Orders, they intended them to be independent of all nations, even though they stood on Aran soil. I believed in that promise when I came here. But I also found that Arans, even within the Orders, weren’t so welcoming to those who spoke with a different… accent.”
He gave me a small smile, and despite myself, I chuckled. Yes, I knew that well.
“It is honorable of your husband to willingly give up his power by disbanding the Orders,” Iya said. “It’s the right decision. But… even I cannot help mourning that promise.”
He picked up a little piece of rubble. It was a piece of the mural that had adorned the bottom floor of the Towers—Araich and Rosira’s hands touching where the Tower of Midnight met the Tower of Daybreak.
A knot formed in my stomach. I was speaking before I could stop myself.
“Maybe the promise does not have to die.” Iya’s eyebrow raised. “How so?”
The seed of the idea came to me just seconds ago. But seconds were all it took for my mind to race through the possibilities, the roots already embedding in my heart.
Despite myself, I started to smile.
“How hard do you think it would be, Councilor,” I said, “to create something new? Something that did fulfill that promise?”
