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Kingdom of the Dammed
“It’s not over.” Queen Kane took a shuddering breath, caught between shock and elation. Perching on the edge of a rumbling void, she clung to the Witchfinder General. Underfoot the bones of the dam were slippery with spray from the water coursing beneath them, while her kingdom spread out on each side of the holy river. Echoes from the torrent bounced off the surrounding concrete, creating a lullaby of obliteration. A cold gust of wind buffeted from the side, encouraging them towards oblivion. She felt Tamacti Jun brace against it, but she remained unconcerned. Her story would not end today, and by extension, neither could his.
Burying her face in his cloak, she inhaled deeply. The scent of bonfires lingered in the fur. With effort she could discern the tang of charred flesh, proof that many had been engulfed in the Witchfinder’s fires during the long hunt. Unfortunately, the general had failed to find the one person she needed to ascend to true godhood—Jerlamarel, son of a slave, who she had nearly elevated to the status of king, and the man who promised to give her real power. Not simply the power of the rusting machines, the so-called gods her people depended on.
Jerlamarel once told her the secrets of these machines, how they were not gods but engines made by the hands of men, just like himself. As long as these engines worked she was adored. But when they did not, the power subsided, and there were tremors of discontent—vibrations throughout the veins of the palace, cracks in the eternal wall, and muttering from the people who believed her responsible for the whims of gods.
During her reign, she had learned survival depended on adaptation, not the dogma she was expected to uphold. Jerlamarel spent so many hours describing things she could hardly imagine, bounded as she was by the dark walls of her royal cage. Nothing greater could she give her people than what they most feared—the power of light. If she could not make the people love her as a god, she would make a god who loved her—a child who could actually see her smile.
She had gone to some effort to give Jerlamarel the chance to share this blessing with her, and then…nothing. All his words of adoration, all the promises she had made in return, all the prayers—all of it for nothing. She should have killed him then instead of believing he needed time. Time to try out her younger sister instead? She bit her lip as the wounds of old reopened. There could be no greater loss, for herself or her people, whether or not the fools knew it.
The day had come when she believed the long search for Jerlamarel had ended, the quarry having escaped the hound once and for all—until a message arrived. She could not have asked for a clearer indication of her destiny. Soon her divinity would no longer be questioned. Holding the message tightly, she touched the length of knotted cord to her lips as her tears dampened the general’s cloak.
~
Staff gripped firmly in hand, Tamacti Jun waited for whatever had overcome his queen to run its course. The narrow bridge, moments ago a means to an end, was now a cause for concern, and he dared not move until she had composed herself. Despite his long absence, some things had not changed. The queen of Paya had always been ruled by emotion, but after so many years, he believed there was little she could do to surprise him—until she had suddenly joined him, inches from eternity. He had missed her approach, drowned out as it was by the pounding water, and memories of voices he would never hear again.
The honors, and the consequences, of his rank were equally clear. He had long been marching towards this conclusion. A Witchfinder did not allow a witch to evade justice, no matter what the devil’s powers might be. Yet the trail had been cold for years. No amount of fear or flame could coax a hint of Jerlamarel’s location from any of the hidden tribes. He had compounded the failure by inadvertently making a legend of the heretic, as the one man to successfully escape the might of the Payan army. Those who opposed them would be emboldened by this feat. It was apparent what Queen Kane thought of that error.
He knew his fate was best taken care of by himself, according to the Old Way. He had no craving for spectacle. The resolution was one step away. Simple, swift and honorable—or it would have been. The queen was making it known he would not escape so easily. The faint sound of the royal ring had heralded her change of mind, and only by her command did he remain alive. He supposed he should find out why.
~
“Your Majesty?” The general’s voice was a soft rasp.
The queen dug her nails into his shoulder in response. Selfish as it might be, she was relieved not to sacrifice him to the sacred waters. Despite her disappointment, he remained a valued weapon, and finding a trustworthy replacement would be inconvenient. He had always supported her, even against her sister’s bid for the throne. She knew he had been genuinely fond of Maghra. One could hardly miss that rare shift in his tone of voice, from cold to caring, whenever he spoke to her. Fortunately, he’d had sense enough to know a soft heart was even less use than sightless eyes. The queen had used this fondness to her own ends. Tamacti Jun believed, as most did, that Jerlamarel had murdered Maghra. He and the rest of the Witchfinders vowed to bring the princess’ killer to justice. She had given strict orders she wanted Jerlamarel brought back alive. She had not made it clear what she would do with him. Perhaps, once she had what she wanted, she would let the Royal Witchfinder get creative with what was left.
Head resting on his chest, she gave him the good news. “I am extending your commission.” There was no response besides a steady heartbeat. Lifting her head, she continued, “Until you find Jerlamarel.”
She felt his impatient sigh. That was not the reaction she expected. “Am I keeping you from something?” she asked with mock concern.
“It is possible he’s dead by now,” he replied, more abrasively than usual. “I cannot apprehend a dead man.”
She frowned. “You were never one to make excuses.”
~
“It’s a possibility, not an excuse,” he countered.
The search for the fugitive had overtaken every aspect of his life for too long. Each day being another reminder of failure. It needed to end, one way or another. His attention wandered back to the tumultuous abyss in front of them. Death closely stalked a soldier, but it was another matter to feed oneself to it—the instinct to live had to be conquered. It had taken considerable determination to reorganize priorities, and once done, they were not so easy to reset.
As if the queen knew his mind, she continued, “Death is a poor excuse, but an excuse nonetheless. Only by our will are things made possible or impossible,” she stated with apparent conviction.
He stifled another sigh. He could hardly fault her for taking the concept literally. Her fortitude was one of the reasons he stood with her when half the kingdom had been ready to move on to the next Kane in the line of succession.
King Wolf Kane had kept order by way of inspiration and fear. After the king’s death, his eldest daughter tried to maintain that balance, but when it began to fail she relied on her army to instill the latter in the nobles. They could not have afforded a civil war if the people lost faith in their queen’s right to rule, and she allowed him, as her general, to do what was needed to keep chaos at bay.
Princess Maghra had been a kind person, and her loss was deeply felt, by him no less than anyone, but had she gained the throne, he would have been shackled by her conscience. He could do little constrained by someone else’s morality. He was pragmatic enough to know narrowing the choice to only one of them had stabilized matters, for a while.
Clearly the threats to the kingdom had grown while he was gone. He had hardly ridden through the gates and could tell things were not as they should be. The voices of the gods were weaker now. Their song came in spasms rather than the smooth drone he remembered. Doubtless that had an effect on the ability to maintain order. His lieutenants confirmed those suspicions in the few moments he gave them. If he was to live, he would need to address these issues, not waste more time chasing Jerlamarel, or his sighted spawn.
He felt the queen tighten her grip on his shoulder. “I hope the years have not drained you of all determination,” she said, sounding dismayed.
“Not all of it,” he replied. He was quite determined to avoid the same snare which held him the last twenty winters. He knew there was a vast difference between himself and the slaves they had taken over the years, but wondered if it was not simply a matter of degree. At least they tried to escape. He had given up his freedom—once sworn to it, there was only one path to follow. It did not please him to have ended up here, but he had done what was expected to honor the commitment. All the Witchfinders had. But it did not change the fact they were unsuccessful. Or, more to the point, he was unsuccessful. Life allowed so little room for error. He understood the need for sacrifice.
The sound of the queen’s ring drew his attention, a reminder that freedom was merely a fantasy for those without purpose.
~
The queen plucked at the coarse fur under her fingers. The sudden turn of his head proved the general had not been concentrating on her. It was somewhat distressing. They both took failure seriously, but she assumed he would welcome the chance to correct it. “You have not confirmed your acceptance of the commission, yet.”
“True,” he agreed.
“Well?” she asked, voice rising like a tide. She had never known him to be indecisive, which meant he had already made up his mind. “Say what you are thinking.” His fearless honesty was equally valuable and irritating. She could always trust him to tell her what she did not want to hear.
“The kingdom is once again at risk,” he began, “but not from any army at the gates. I cannot lead another crusade against a few devils, no matter how dangerous, while our foundation crumbles from neglect.”
She drew a breath, and slowly released it, trying to decide if what he said amounted to treason. The message from the Sun Grave still dangled in her hand. She knew it had come for a reason. He must be made to understand. “You sound like Lord Carne and Lady Zee. Do you remember them?”
“Vaguely,” he said after a moment.
“Do you know what happened to them?” She twisted the message around her fingers until it began to constrict.
“I can guess,” he answered grimly. “I assume their remains now deck the ceiling of the great hall? Out of curiosity, what did they tell you?”
Her fingers were beginning to throb from the pressure of the cord. “The words of the dead are not worth repeating,” she replied dismissively, even as she remembered Lady Zee expending her last breath pointing out she was not a god. After that, the queen had given her the power to transform, and Lady Zee had made a pleasant crackling sound, like leaves underfoot. She unwound the message and the blood rushed back.
She wondered, not for the first time, why it was so difficult to get her point across, even to those most loyal. Why did they not simply trust her to make the best choices for themselves, and their people? So many lives would have been spared. She did not doubt the Witchfinder would die for her, so why could he not follow a simple order? If she had truly been a god, there would be no fucking choice.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a low vibration, distinct from the thundering water. The reverberation surrounded them, and a fine scatter of dust fell from the structures above. Her arm was gripped tight as the general pulled her back towards a supporting pillar. The tremor subsided as abruptly as it began. She scoffed at his alarm.
“I take it that’s normal?” he asked incredulously.
“The holy temple trembles with increasing frequency,” she explained shortly, smoothing back the hood of her cloak. “These gods are dying,” she said, hardly hiding her contempt.
“Perhaps this comes as no shock, but I find that disconcerting.” Keeping hold of her arm, he made a move to retreat.
Her hand closed around his staff, rendering it immobile. “Since when were you so cautious?” she asked with disdain. They were not going anywhere until she had procured his continued commitment.
“Since my queen put her life at risk to prolong mine, for little purpose,” he answered, his frustration evident.
Letting go of the staff, she traced the knotted cords running the length of his baldric. Three strands, the leather polished smooth with time, each an oath he had made to her father; to protect Paya, to defend the monarchy, and to honor the Old Way. But what about to her?
“Remind me, Tamacti, what is your primary duty?”
“To serve the kingdom, and its queen,” he replied gravely.
“In that order?” she asked sharply.
“You are what matters most, to the kingdom.” He sounded suspiciously tactful.
“And to you?” she prodded.
After a pause, he said, “For all intents and purposes, yes.”
So cautious, she thought. Perhaps not a lie, but not the whole truth either. “Intent, and purpose?” she repeated, cocking her head as if hearing something brilliant. “Those are at least two reasons to keep you around.” Her hand slid down the baldric until it reached the hilt of his sword. “Loyalty and obedience are two more.” The sword grip was rough with wear. Her thumb circled the jagged pommel. She did not doubt the blade was equally artless and brutal. Could she expect any more of the man?
“Do you want to learn the rest?” she offered.
“What I want matters little,” he answered plainly.
Releasing the sword, she continued the line of attack. “Humility does not suit you. We both know you get what you want.”
His laugh was raw, like a raven’s croak. “I find that ironic, given the circumstances.”
She ignored the denial, hands trailing across his shoulders, her fingertips grazing the wall behind him. “Perhaps you believe time has the power to release you from your duty? Or does that remain the privilege of your queen?”
“Death alone holds that power.” His words sounded worn, as if they traveled much further than the space between them. “Majesty, no matter how badly we wanted this quest completed, it does not change the fact that I have already searched everywhere,” he replied with a trace of heat. “No army has ranged as far from Paya, or covered as much territory, since the years before darkness ascended.”
“How thrilling,” she said with disinterest. “But you are wrong. There is much you have left to explore.” Her hands moved to his neck, feeling the blood coursing beneath warm skin. Rising on her toes, she pressed herself against him, breathing deep enough to taste his scent beyond the layers of smoke and death. Despite her assault, the pulse under her touch did not change. He could have been the wall, for all his reaction. “I can give you directions, should you need them,” she added. She felt his mirthless snort, but that was all. She remained undeterred—even walls crumbled eventually.
Her fingers snaked through his beard, until she encountered the fragments of God-bone driven through his ears. She tested the point of a spike with her fingertip. There were more than she remembered, each one marking years spent in service to the Crown. “You are running out of room,” she remarked, hands locking behind his neck.
~
With the pillar behind him, and a sheer drop on each side, the general was acutely aware of how little room he had. “Is that an observation, or a threat?” he asked mildly.
“I find threats are a waste of time,” the queen answered casually. Snapping her fingers, the bells on her ring signaled her unspoken command.
As in battle, remaining calm was crucial, but he knew if he did not take the initiative soon, he would lose control of more than just the argument. He caught her wrist in his hand, silencing the sound of the ring. His grip was gentle, but his mind automatically assessed what force to apply to get results, were she anyone else. Leaning down, he felt her breath brush like a moth against his lips. As usual, he had no choice—one oath could not break another.
Turning his head, his refusal scraped against her ear. “This is a waste of time.” He did not let go of her. She ought to know his mind was not so easy to change. During his career he had developed an immunity to the persuasive efforts of those desperate to save their own lives, or their loved ones. It was remarkable what people would offer in exchange for a few more breaths—as if their existence mattered that much. He took everything from them, regardless of what they said, or did.
Unfortunately, he knew the queen to be no less determined than he was. She seemed fragile, but it was the brittleness of a stone that would slice to the bone if improperly handled. Nevertheless, he had run out of options. They would stay there, on the edge, until one of them finally broke.
~
Seemingly trapped, the queen smiled. The general had always been harsh, unlike the self-interested nobles she could twist around her fingers. But if he wanted to play rough, she would teach him how it was done.
“Oh, I do understand,” she cooed, her manner growing abnormally sympathetic. Her free hand moved to his chest, marking each beat of his heart. “Though I admit, I had almost forgotten.” He must know there was a fine edge between honor and insubordination. She would simply remind him how keenly it would cut. “How is your wife?” she asked pleasantly.
She felt a change in the rhythm of his heart, and a momentary pain as the bones in her wrist were constricted. Cracks in the wall. One more tremor was all it would take. Teeth clenching delicately, her smile turned feral. She actually had forgotten that little detail, something so irrelevant did not seem worthy of her memory—until it became useful.
~
The general’s eyes narrowed as if facing a gale. There was no discernable malice in her question, yet it contained a wealth of unpleasant possibilities. He knew all the methods of coercion, but he had to admire her talent for finding weakness where there should be none.
“Your family will be pleased to find you have returned,” she added soothingly.
He was fully aware that what pleased other people was of no interest to her. His wife and children would have fared well had he died with honor, as was intended. But that was no longer an option. He knew how the queen’s mind worked. Retribution did not end at death. His thoughts returned to the great hall, and the creaking of chains high up in the rafters, where only the crows would attend their passing. For someone who supposedly did not make threats, Queen Kane was very effective.
With a haggard sigh, he released her wrist.
~
The queen almost laughed. Such an easy victory. The bloodless ones were often sweetest. She imagined it must be tedious believing in the vows one took. Fortunately, she had never been so burdened. Having made her point, she took pity on the Witchfinder.
“You have lost faith, Tamacti. Perhaps it is to be expected after so many years away.” Gathering his unresisting hand in hers, she held it close. “I will restore it,” she said, pressing the message into the palm of his glove. “Presagers, portents—rarely are they this punctual,” she explained cryptically. “While I am sure the God Flame would appreciate your sacrifice, it will simply have to wait.” She doubted it would have done her any good. Over the years she had sacrificed plenty; councilors, commoners, old and young, innocent or guilty—in all manner of ways. Through it all, the voices of the gods grew fainter, while the noise of the people grew louder.
“Feel,” she commanded, as his fingers curled slowly around the cord like a dying crab.
~
Unsure what to make of her words, he rested his staff in the crook of his arm, and studied the message she had given him. His surprise deepened as he deciphered the knots. It seemed to describe the location of the heretic’s children. The self-righteous style was familiar, most likely made by the Alkenny traitor who summoned them years ago.
“Why didn’t you mention this sooner?” he asked, bewildered.
“Didn’t I?” she retorted. “You were convinced I was wasting your time. Turns out there is a place you failed to search. Perhaps next time you will trust me,” she chided. Her arm curled around his, comfortably this time, as if everything that came before was only a passing fit. He felt relieved at that. But he still did not understand the source of the message.
“Where was this found?” He scrutinized the cord for clues to its origin. It was dry, but smelled damp, which meant it had been in water for an extended time previously. “Where is the messenger?”
“You are missing the point,” she said patiently. “It arrived when it was most needed. What greater herald than fate itself?” She sounded quite convinced of her words.
He was less so. “But when was it made?”
“That is unimportant.” Her voice grew firm. “Fortunately for you, I did not stop to interrogate the soldier who brought it, or we would not have had this delightful discussion.”
“That’s something that needs to be done.” He realized then how easy it would be to slide into the old routine. Part of him would welcome a chance to burn out the rats from that particular village—the Alkenny savages cost him an inordinate number of casualties. But he was wary of wasting their efforts all over again. “Jerlamarel helped this tribe, that much is certain, but we cannot know if those children are really witches.”
“A whole village dissolves and remains out of your reach this long—they must have an advantage you lack,” she reasoned.
“An advantage?” He knew she meant vision. Only he rarely heard it described so, and certainly not within the temple.
“Don’t be so fanatical,” she reproached. “You know it is.”
He did, but it was incongruous coming from her. He let it go. There were more important matters. “I question the reliability of this informant. He was a fool, as well as a traitor.” He did not hide his disgust at the memory of Gether Bax.
“Your aversion does not make his information less valuable. If likeability was the prime factor in utility, I would have a parliament composed entirely of songbirds.”
He had not expected the traitor to have survived at all. “It is suspicious his tribe did not finish him when he returned. He was not subtle.”
“Is that not proof enough? Why risk his life twice, unless there are witches among them?” she proposed.
“Maybe. He was a true believer,” he said sardonically.
“A pious man in the midst of savages? It must be excruciating for him,” she mused.
“And for them,” he added. The boy had been arrogant and obsequious in equal measure.
“As Holy Guardian, you must preserve him,” she declared.
“Whole, or in pieces?” he asked.
“I am being serious,” she replied, unconvincingly.
“As was I.” He still could not shake his concerns. “It may all be a lie.”
She squeezed his arm tightly. It reminded him of the pythons the merchants brought back from the south. “Whether it is truth or not, you will go.” Her tone fell just short of a question.
He was done fighting for the day. Returning the message to her, he settled the matter, “Truth or not…they will suffer.”
“I accept that as confirmation,” she said triumphantly, relaxing her hold. “It is reassuring to feel the spark rekindle, especially after your fire was nearly snuffed,” she said blithely. “But I should have realized, even the most loyal hound is utterly useless without a scent to follow.”
He grunted at the insult. He could tell her mood had improved, though her words remained biting. Condescension aside, she was not entirely wrong. This news did not change everything, but it was more than nothing.
Even so, he felt uncertain if it was enough to hold the army together, with their period of conscription at an end. The oaths he had taken long ago went beyond what most were sworn to. Only death could release him from duty, as he had reminded the queen, but the rest were not as tightly bound. They required a different sort of motivation. He was unsure he could muster it again, given his own hesitation to embrace the task. It had been his custom to be honest with those under his command, not least because the ayuras could hear a lie immediately, but because the truth would always surface, like a corpse underwater. For twenty years his soldiers put their faith in him, because he believed in what he told them, something that was growing increasingly difficult. This would test those limits further.
The queen cut into his thoughts. “I expect the search to resume immediately.”
“That will be unpopular. I believe I was the only Witchfinder without plans beyond today,” he said dryly. With his death no longer imminent, there were a number of things he would rather do than climb back into the saddle. Yet despite his desire, the idea of facing his wife was unnerving in a way he had not been preparing for. He knew a similar sense of trepidation ran throughout the company. They all assumed not everything had remained as it was, but to what extent would the life they left behind be unrecognizable?
He pushed thoughts of reunion aside for the present. Perhaps it was a form of cowardice, but he did not wish to further draw the queen’s attention to his family. And he needed whatever time he had to pry his men away from their lives once more. His own could wait a while longer.
“Those soldiers assumed they would be released from duty,” he informed her.
“And you think I care?” she asked lightly.
“Not remotely,” he admitted. “Consider the horses then, if not the soldiers. They must rest, or we will need replacements. The beasts don’t last forever,” he warned.
“The horses, or the men?” she quipped.
“Neither,” he said truthfully.
He closed his eyes when her hand touched the scars on the side of his head—a ritual gesture of some significance. He remembered it meant more during the king’s reign, when God and the monarch were still one in his world. Time had a way of altering perception.
Her nails traced the engraving on his temple. “I missed you, Tamacti.”
“Narrowly, Majesty.” He knew she could have promoted someone else to his position, and let his sacrifice stand. For better or worse, she had not, and he had work still to do. Taking her hand, he brought her ring to his lips, completing the ancient custom. “Now, I have weary soldiers to disappoint, and I can’t leave you here. Would you follow me, please?” he entreated.
“Your concern is touching, but unnecessary,” she said with amusement. “I have walked these paths since I was a child—it was my refuge from the handmaids.” Her hand slipped from his as she turned in the direction from which she had come. “Never doubt, my way is better,” she said over her shoulder.
The general was left with no choice but to follow her. Reconciling himself to whatever came next, he let the queen lead him away from the edge.