Work Text:
Ashes
With her fingers gouging into the earth, Queen Maghra could feel his strength surrounding her, his voice a whisper in her mind. Tears over-spilled her sightless eyes as she swallowed back sorrow. Ever since he left her, the memory of his love caused as much joy as pain. She could no longer feel one without the other, so she welcomed both equally.
Rising from the ground, she let the dirt fall from her hands. Fine ash remained to dull her touch, but she could not bear to brush it off. Part of her life lingered in the blood-soaked soil, where she had said goodbye to Baba’s soul.
Months had passed, yet even as her daughter married, and her son spoke for their people in council, she was unable to move far beyond that world-rending moment. The noise of the blast had been deafening, making it hard to know what happened right after. But when Kofun found her, signing the terrible news into her palm, she had already known—her fierce bear was gone.
In the wake of the battle, it had been impossible to sort the dead into any coherent order. They could only allow the souls to settle where they were. But still she came, perhaps stirring up the spirits with each step. She did not know for sure. Her time with the Alkenny introduced her to different concepts of the afterlife than her Payan teachers preached. Different beliefs about a person’s ultimate fate. How could anyone know which was correct, until they crossed that threshold? Only one person in her life had done so, and returned.
Whatever happened after the day she left him for dead had made the years in his voice more apparent, but Tamacti Jun still offered what he always did—something solid to stand by in times of turmoil. Inviting anyone to partake in the ritual of her grief felt strange, but she had done it all the same, prying him out of the palace early in the morning, before some military necessity claimed him. Together they had climbed that mound of despair, while the God Flame beat down warmly.
She had spent half her life being afraid of what his Witchfinders would do to her children if they caught them, but during negotiations with Trivantes, Tamacti had spoken up for Kofun and Haniwa as sighted individuals, not because they were royalty, but because they had fought in the service of Paya. She had not expected that, but she was thankful for it. He was the only one she could trust to support her true beliefs, even as the Trivantian delegation left her no choice but to reverse her own edict on sight.
Though the ground was stable, she felt as if she were sliding into the crater only a few feet away, letting her kingdom fall back into a pit she tried so hard to pull them out of. While Baba never thought much of sight, he had given everything for her children. His power, and his life, all to ensure peace for his family. And so she would do whatever it took to keep that peace. But the betrayal stung all the same.
The persecution of the sighted had been a part of their society for generations. As Tamacti had explained, neither of them could undo that by themselves—she had been perilously naive to think so. But together they had sown the seeds for change. She would have to be patient for what grew next.
A sudden breeze blew ashes in their direction, and she heard the former Witchfinder snort in reaction. She could tell he would rather not be out there, treading over shrapnel, and breathing in the dead. He was likely thinking about his soldiers, as she was about Baba, and the choices they made which ended so many lives. She could not share his guilt over the destruction of the Witchfinders—they served Sibeth far longer than her, and to her sister’s side they returned, like beaten dogs—but she knew he felt accountable for them. His responsibility to their people never wavered, while her own had nearly failed her. Yet despite everything she did to turn their world upside down, he had dragged her back onto the path she was born for, and gave no sign of letting go.
In that cradle of chaos, he had made a promise, seemingly more casual than past oaths to the crown, but perhaps even harder to commit to: He would stay, for her.
Turning towards him, she felt her burdens lessen slightly, as she leaned against a heart that beat steady as ever.
~
Tamacti sighed. He understood how deeply Maghra must be hurting, though they both knew he was ill-equipped to provide much in the way of comfort. The fact she turned to him, despite this, stirred something within that he did not necessarily need agitated. As time passed, the pain of his losses had faded, but he was left with more scars on a toughened soul, making it hard to feel anything. And perhaps that was for the best.
Since returning to it, his connection to the world had been tenuous, as if he were trespassing among the living. He had not intended to stay long, even for the queen. But with Baba gone, he refused to let her fail from a lack of support.
He gave her a reassuring embrace before releasing her, hoping she was content enough to leave this forsaken zone, where he was more than likely stepping on people he once knew.
The majority of his soldiers had been killed in Baba’s final act—which was somehow fitting, after his army had destroyed the warrior’s own tribe. He felt no resentment—rather it spared him having to do it himself. They were devoted Witchfinders to the end, but traitors none-the-less, upholding an ideal, while forgetting the basic reason for existence—to protect their people. He never imagined they could be so easily directed to fight against their own nation, but a weapon in a thoughtless hand was more dangerous than it was worth. They had to be destroyed, as did the person who misused them.
He regretted having missed his chance to finish Sibeth Kane, but at least Maghra had taken that honor. According to the Old Way, no monarch could ascend without death’s consent. They had been attempting to subvert that tradition, and it had nearly cost them everything. But with the killing of her sister, Maghra’s reign had truly begun.
He thought again of the woman walking next to him, and how different she was from her older sibling. Sometimes, fleetingly, he considered the ways they were not so different, his mind alert for the tendencies he had dismissed in Sibeth. He knew it was doing Maghra a disservice—she had been the one to warn him years ago of her sister’s failings—but it was a service the kingdom required. At least this queen’s ears were open to suggestions, and her mind was wise enough to recognize her own ignorance in certain matters. Humility was a rare quality in a ruler, but those who possessed it needed encouragement when doubt overtook them. Though a woeful guide on the path of life, he would do what he could to make her reign successful.
The God Flame’s warmth suddenly intensified. He could not deny she picked a nice day to be out, and if one did not mind strolling over a mass grave, it was almost pleasant. But he still had duties to attend to, and he was about to be uncharacteristically late. It would be a poor example to the recruits. While part of him no longer wanted any role in shaping men and women into tools for war, it remained necessary. Even if they could mollify the Trivantians, Pennsa still needed to protect itself from lesser aggressors. But he would leave the motivational speeches to Captain Gosset. Critiquing form and technique would not require him to share what was really on his mind.
In all his years of command, he had never expected more of his army than he was prepared to give of himself. But now…how could they be soldiers if they did as he should have done, and put their own families first?
He stopped, suddenly remembering what Baba had said, shortly before the man had helped win the day at Greenhill: I am not a soldier. At the time, he assumed it was a warning not to expect the warrior to follow anyone’s orders. But now Tamacti understood, completely. Though child-less, Baba had been a father, above all.
The pain, which he thought he was beyond noticing, hit him once again.
“What is it?” Maghra asked, alert for trouble.
“Nothing,” he said swiftly, but he knew that was not accurate. “Everything?” he amended.
“You’re being unusually cryptic,” she said, worry tainting her words.
She was likely the only one alive who would not be indifferent to his misery—which was exactly why he did not want to share it with her. The queen had enough concerns of her own.
He resumed walking.
~
Maghra listened once more for threats. Only when she was satisfied that the metallic creaking she heard was a grackle calling in the woods—and not the sound of war machines being loaded—did she catch up to Tamacti.
She felt something was bothering him. He was so rarely vague. Despite her anguish, she could only guess at what he had been through, having lost not only his wife, but his children, to her sister’s madness—something she could not imagine living beyond. As they walked back to the gates of Pennsa, she found the nerve to ask a question which had been on her mind.
“When you…died,” she said hesitantly, “were they there? Your family?”
“No.”
The answer was almost devoid of emotion, but her ear caught a hint of something underneath. She felt compelled to press further.
“You once said you understood vision after returning. What did you see?”
“It's too nice a day for that,” he said gruffly.
She was familiar with his evasion strategies, when he would say little to avoid telling her what she did not want to hear, but this felt different. “Please,” she entreated, “tell me what happened.”
There was silence in response, though his pace never altered.
She remembered how, upon his arrival in Pennsa, she found fresh incisions on his temple, their placement a disavowal of the elaborate oath pricked into the skin beneath. Baba had done the same with his own slaver marks—deep regrets, gouged in flesh.
“Whatever it was changed you. I want to know,” she said more forcefully.
He stopped, and the silence deepened. She touched his arm, making it clear she would not be going away until he answered. It might be risky to insist, but she was desperate for the knowledge.
There was a long pause, during which she worried she had pushed him too far. But when he spoke again, she heard no trace of irritation.
“Ask me sometime when it's miserable out, and I promise to tell you far more than you’ll want to know.”
It sounded like a dismissal, but she knew he always kept a promise.
“Very well,” she agreed, “you give me no choice, but to enjoy the day.”
“And I must leave you to it,” he said brusquely. “Captain Gosset expects my help with the recruits from Altoona,” he added, as if in excuse. “He’ll wonder why I’m late.”
“If the queen makes you late, you’re not late,” she said, more confidently than she felt.
He made a rasping noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a growl. “You do sound like Sibeth, at times.”
She noted the faintest concern underneath the jibe. While she hated to admit it, her sister had understood certain things—about people, and power—that she was only just discovering. “At times, she was right,” she said without humor.
He made no reply to that, but took her hand, and kissed the rings that were once her father’s—his customary way of ending an audience.
***
Maghra waited until the last days of summer were long gone, then one night, as a squall of rain ushered in the cold, she went to Tamacti’s quarters in the palace. The guards stood aside at the sound of her rings.
As she stepped through the doorway, a gently grating voice addressed her.
“I thought you might come.” He did not sound entirely happy about it, but pleasantries were never his priority.
She twined her fingers in the long-haired pelt hanging by the door. “The whole palace is cold. I fear it will be freezing come winter.” Releasing the fur, she shivered as she walked towards the fireplace.
“The drafts are worse since the damage,” he agreed. “We may have to pitch tents within our rooms.”
She had to smile at that. “You would love an excuse to do it.”
“If the floor could hold a stake, I would,” he said. “Properly set, a tent is worth more than cracked walls.”
Her hand traced the rough surface of the hearth bricks, laid centuries ago. Though it contained fire, the ancient clay was cool to the touch.
“I can imagine.” She had spent little time in tents, but she had lived half her life in log huts. “When I was in the mountains, we each had a home with just enough space for one fire to warm every corner.”
“Very practical. Here, one can sacrifice an abundance of logs, and it hardly helps,” he opined, while adding more wood to the blaze. “For some reason, the nobility has always preferred to shelter within the bones of the sighted world, even while we disparaged it. You’ll recall Kanzua was the same. Damp, and rusting away. It grew worse over time, but it was not until I lived outside it for a while that I realized how decadent it was.”
“I remember,” she said, her mind returning to her final days spent in the dam, listening to the rumble of the turbines, for what would be the last time. “We attempted to live off the ingenuity of others, believing it was our own power.”
“Perhaps it was always fated to fail,” he mused, “sooner or later.”
While he might be right, there was no denying her sister hastened that process. Possessed by bitter desperation, Sibeth had broken the pulsing heart of their kingdom, and had nearly succeeded in doing the same to Pennsa.
During that final attack, it took all Maghra had not to give in to despair. But whenever she believed everything was lost, she remembered the strength of the Alkenny to overcome devastation, and how Baba had amplified their courage with his own. Now it was her turn to be strong for her own people.
“Baba and I helped build New Alkenny, mostly from scratch,” she told him. “It was a beautiful thing, to feel that place grow under our hands. The huts they are rebuilding outside remind me of that time. They may not last a hundred years, but that might be for the best. A chance to change as needs arise.”
“Well, there’s at least one benefit to living here—the cellar,” he declared, offering her a glass.
She took the drink. It smelled like a wine of good vintage, which a sip confirmed. She remembered how they had found the late Lord of Pennsa’s private cellar stocked with a bewildering assortment of spirits, and an unsettling amount of illegal substances. It must have been the culmination of a lifetime of clandestine activities.
“Harlan always liked fine things,” she said fondly.
“He surrounded himself with them…as if they would improve his own quality,” he remarked contemptuously.
She knew it had been a mistake mentioning Harlan. “You really didn't like him, did you?”
“No, but that doesn't make him special. I don't like most people,” he said coldly.
“You liked Baba,” she countered.
“Baba also disliked Harlan, so we had that in common.”
“As I tried to tell Baba, Harlan just had…a way about him,” she said awkwardly.
“A way?” He snorted derisively. “Something was always up with Harlan, and it wasn't just what he'd have you believe.”
She failed to repress an irritated sigh. It was no secret Tamacti had been distrustful of the amount of influence Harlan had gained in such a short time, but whatever threat he attributed to him seemed invalid at this point. “The way you still speak of him, one would think you were jealous,” she accused.
“Of what?” he barked, apparently oblivious to how he sounded. “The man was a fraud who hoped to become king.”
“He was no more a fraud than I,” she said firmly. “We both took those false vows.” Harlan had been a means of protection when she arrived in Pennsa, and a step towards securing power. And she was certain he felt the same about her…at first.
“Harlan half-believed he was your husband,” he said pointedly.
“He was an opportunist,” she replied dismissively, though she knew Tamacti was probably right. As time wore on, it had become increasingly obvious that Harlan was willing to give more than mere ambition dictated.
“Had Baba died first, you would have discovered how true that was.”
“But he didn’t,” she said sharply, wishing to end the posthumous persecution. “Whatever Harlan’s intentions were, I used him more than he did me.” Perhaps it was her right as queen, but it did not make her feel righteous. Her sister used many people to get what she wanted, and thoughtlessly destroyed most of them in the process. It was not an example she wished to follow. “And,” she continued, “I will always remember Harlan as the man who died saving my daughter, even though I was responsible for his brother’s death.” She took a shaky sip of wine, recalling the soul-shredding sound of Harlan’s grief upon finding Kerrigan’s head in a parcel from Trivantes.
“Responsible?” he said in disbelief. “Did you kill him yourself, or order his death?”
“No, but—”
“Then you weren't,” he cut in.
“Wish I had your certainty,” she said dully.
“I've very little left these days, but I know more about murder than most people. That isn’t it.” As reassurances went, it was rather chilling.
“Tamacti, it's not Harlan I came to speak of.” Setting her glass on the mantle, she followed the path of bricks down to the floor, making herself somewhat less than comfortable in front of the hearth. “You know what I’m here for,” she said, arranging her skirt so it was safe from scattering embers, “and you promised to tell me on a day that couldn't get any more miserable.”
“Don’t underestimate my abilities,” he warned.
She might have laughed, had he not sounded so serious.
He continued in the same tone. “If you come for hope, as I suspect, you will be disappointed. I can provide only truth.”
“I'll take what I can get,” she said, preparing herself for whatever revelations he might share.
~
Tamacti considered the queen who demanded no throne, nor even a cushion, but instead sat on the floor. She once told him, reluctantly, of all that happened after she had supposedly died, so it was fair enough that he finally do the same.
He lowered himself to her level in front of the fire, daring the sparks to take advantage of his proximity. It seemed like the appropriate setting for the tale. He could almost imagine being back in the silk merchant’s workshop, where the last he remembered of Maghra Kane, she had been kneeling on the ground next to him, in front of her horrid sister, while he bled most of his life out onto the stone—a final sacrifice to a worthless queen. The next he had been aware, there was nothing but fire, and them—or his mentors, as he now believed them to be.
These spirits did not educate with words, as the elders had when he was younger, but with experience. They shared their final thoughts, and feelings, putting him through their destruction, over and over, all while protecting him; the flames had been kept at bay, as his ignorance burned away.
It had taken time to understand what they had actually done for him. Had it been pure retribution, he would still be there, in eternal agony. Instead, he felt like a scorched field, where fresh life might grow after a pause. Yet committing to change was not easy. The old responsibilities remained, and he found himself in morally treacherous situations once again—in order to protect what mattered, one had to kill.
But the presence of these mentors had begun to fade from his consciousness after Maghra had taken power. Perhaps it was proof he was doing something right, finally. Now he would invite them back into his mind, just long enough that the queen could benefit from the lesson, hopefully without having to learn it directly.
“I always believed I would die for the kingdom,” he began, “and it would be considered a worthy sacrifice. But the God Flame rejected my offer.”
“You sound disappointed,” Maghra noted, scooting closer to him.
“To put it mildly,” he agreed.
“When I left you that day, your heart was silent,” she said, touching his chest, as if she were questioning her own heightened sense of hearing. “Because of the knife, and the blood…I thought you were dead.”
“I was…mostly. But we are slightly more than this,” he explained, covering her hand with his. Her skin felt cold, and he pressed it to him, transferring his warmth to her. “Beyond blood, and heart, there's a spark. A gift from the Great Flame. It fuels each life. And when that life ends, it returns to the source.”
“But this spark stayed with you?” she asked.
“I believe so. Perhaps it is not welcomed back until we learn what we’ve done wrong,” he said, releasing her hand. “There's a term, which once equated to wisdom, before light became evil: Enlightenment. People used to seek it. I did not, but it found me.”
“I don't quite understand,” she said.
“Neither did I, at first,” he admitted. “For generations, Witchfinders have passed down as much knowledge of our quarry as we could, but to see, for myself….” He remembered the first flood of images. “There were things I'd never imagined, which would be hard to explain to most people, though you will already know much of what I experienced from your children's accounts. I won't bore you with my surprise over the simplest things, when what you really want to know is if my family were there. They were not. In fact, I saw no life, besides that which I had once taken. Not even birds or beasts.”
“Were there no people?” she asked, failing to hide her dismay.
“Only in a way.” He knew the assurances she craved were not within his power to give. “Those present were my victims. They welcomed me into a world of suffering, giving me the chance to see what I had done, while their last moments became my own.” Each death had been agonizingly unique, so that he could recall every one distinctly. “I'll give you a single example out of the many I inflicted, and endured.”
He focused on a point in the past, the memory of vision remaining, from the brief period where his soul could see. The one who chose to enter his thoughts did not surprise him. Someone Maghra would have known. Perhaps someone she would miss.
“As our army arrived in your former village, there was an Alkenny woman who had the courage to speak for those gathered under our spears. Judging by the years in her voice, I assumed she was the tribal elder.”
“The Dreamer,” Maghra whispered, almost to herself.
“When I met her again, in these visions, her status was obvious from the scars on her skin. And though her voice had been brave, I saw the fear in her face. She knew death was close. But there were none gathered this time. No one for her to protect, nor anyone to give my orders to. Just her and I.
“There is something inside which attempts to rationalize murder, even when nobody is trying to kill you back. But it's different when there's no audience full of expectations. No pressing need for information. No…justification for what I did. But neither had I any power to change course. I could only watch, and feel.”
Maghra had grown very quiet, and he imagined being condemned by the one person whose opinion still mattered would make his remaining days even more grim, but perhaps it was unavoidable. She deserved to know the truth.
He pressed on.
“The Dreamer did not lie, but I could hear she was stalling. When she failed to tell me what I wanted to know, I drove a hand's-length of steel into her throat. When done correctly, it's an efficient death—feels as if you've swallowed fire for a moment, then nothing. But as I discovered, occasionally, there's enough time for…reflection.” A feeling of helpless paralysis caressed the edge of his consciousness, and he let the Dreamer's memories fill his mind. “As she lay dying, she thought about her husband, and children, her people…and you.”
~
Maghra flinched at his words. The Dreamer had been right to fear her. She was the instigator of their destruction, if not the instrument. She knew Tamacti ordered the death of the villagers, and she had said nothing to stop it. Kofun already forced her to acknowledge the part her silence played in the annihilation of the Alkenny. But hearing details about the killing of a woman who had served her tribe with dignity and devotion—it was disturbing, though not surprising.
The Dreamer did not deserve to die. No one in that village did. But just as Maghra had never been protected by Alkenny rights—having endured whispered threats for years—the villagers were not Payan, and the laws she knew did not protect them from the Witchfinder. He had done what was expected of him.
The same hands that could warm hers had taken life from the defenseless. She supposed she ought to feel more conflicted about that, but while there was an excessive amount of blood on those hands, she heard only truth on his tongue. At this point in her life, that trust mattered, perhaps more than anything.
“The Dreamer was stalling to save her daughter, not me,” she explained.
“The warrior whom Baba called Lion?” he asked.
“Bow Lion.”
“Ah, yes. That one had a chance to kill me, to avenge her mother, but she did not take it. I never quite understood why.”
She imagined there was only one answer to that mystery. “As long as Baba did not wish it, Bow Lion would have respected his opinion. Her father died when she was young, and Baba provided something she had been missing. She stood with him, from beginning to end.”
The Dreamer's final thoughts weighed on her mind. She hoped Bow was with her now, and that they could forgive her for the choices she made.
Tamacti was quiet for a few moments, before continuing. “Her mother was just one of many who came forward to share their end with me. There were people I had long forgotten, and those I thought nothing of killing, at the time. But try as I might, I can't forget them now.”
His voice quavered in a way she had never heard before. That alone was unsettling, but his words made her feel hollow inside. Those murders had been done under her sister’s reign, and her father’s before that. Maghra believed she could change things for the better, but not even she could avoid it completely.
“Is that why you tried to stop me from ordering the deaths of the traitors? To save me from…this fate?” she questioned.
“Partly,” he answered. Taking a breath, he said more evenly, “You wished for a path to paradise, but I've only walked the road to ruin. All I can tell you is where not to step.”
She wondered, when it was her turn, would the people she loved be there? Or would it be her sister, and the others she'd had to kill, waiting to show her things she did not want to see?
“For how long did you have vision?” she asked.
“I can't say exactly, but I only stayed in that place, between the living and the dead, until I saw the truth; all the horrors we committed—everything my soldiers died for—meant nothing. It saved no one. That was not an easy fact to accept, but these spirits were…persuasive. Apparently, I didn't need to see more than this.”
“Then they let you go?”
“I was free to move,” he confirmed. “But they've never quite let go. Their expectations linger. I doubt anything I do in this life will meet them, but I still have to try.”
Her brows furrowed at a sudden thought. “Is staying here, with me, part of your…penance?”
“You might say so,” he answered reluctantly.
She supposed that was why he supported making Pennsa a haven for the sighted—he had no choice. But whatever the reason, she would gladly accept the help. The concept had not been well-received by the people, even while it was law. It would almost certainly take more violence to end the persecution—the very sort of violence Tamacti had been trying to shield her from.
“I once believed that if you just treat people kindly, they will do the same,” she said wearily. “Now I know it doesn’t work like that.”
“Sometimes it does.” He sounded uncharacteristically positive.
“Not often enough,” she argued. “My council was slaughtered because I was merciful.”
“There are consequences either way,” he cautioned.
“Then what are we supposed to do?”
“Our best. Even if it doesn’t always work,” he answered patiently. “You know, I once believed kindness was your weakness.”
“But no longer?” she asked, knowing the answer.
“To the contrary, it is a blessing, and possibly your greatest strength.”
She was less certain. It often felt more like a curse, and having tried to rule with compassion, it did not seem like any sort of strength. Yet being ruthless did not suit her either. She shook her head. “I'm afraid, Tamacti.”
“Of?”
“Of proving that Sibeth was right, and that my father was wrong to believe in me.”
He did not speak immediately, and she wondered if he might have to agree with that.
At length, he replied, “As I'm sure you’re aware, the systems that had been in place for generations, to keep order and loyalty, began to collapse during your sister's reign. From the beginning, Sibeth and I were united in the belief that fear was the most efficient way to manage a potentially rebellious population. Just enough and it is self-sustaining. But too much pushes people to be even more reckless. At some point, she ruined that balance. You’ll agree her solution to this error was catastrophically disappointing.”
“I know. But sometimes I worry you’ll be disappointed in me too.”
“It would take a lot to beat that, but I suppose anything is possible,” he said with brutal honesty. “But have you asked yourself why our people no longer believed as they once did?” He gave her no chance to answer. “Because Sibeth was unable to inspire them as your father had done. I had the benefit of knowing him, while many only knew her. I believe you are more like him than her. So it is up to you now.”
He made it sound as if that were easy, simply because of who she was, but the difficulty of the task often made her wish she had not heard her father’s final words. She would never have been driven to challenge Sibeth over the crown, and break their remaining family apart, just for power.
She swiped away the tear budding at the corner of her eye. Too many sacrifices had been made to give her this chance. No matter how hard, she could not turn away.
Pulling herself together once more, she realized Tamacti still had not explained all that happened after she thought he had died. “I don't understand how you made it to Trivantes, to end up in prison with Baba,” she prompted.
“That's another tale,” he warned. “I wouldn't want to keep you up all night.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “your stories aren't boring—they're horrifying. If I sleep now, I'll only have nightmares.”
He sighed. “I did promise to make the day worse.”
“And the nights?” she asked.
“Those most especially.”
~
Tamacti had to think before he could dredge up the events which happened after he lost sight. What he knew had only been gathered during fleeting moments of consciousness.
“That fire in the silk-house, which Sibeth must have imagined would consume her worries, never touched me. Yet another rejected sacrifice,” he reasoned. “Having failed to die, I found myself rescued by a flock of vultures.”
“Vultures?” Maghra said quizzically.
“Slave traders,” he explained with a grim laugh. “That merchant must have been a regular client. I assume they were attracted to the smoke, hoping to find something alive after our army left. I recall them arguing once they figured out my rank. They knew I'd be valuable to Trivantes, but not all of them wanted to risk getting caught by Witchfinders on the way. In the end, greed overcame caution, as it usually does.”
“That must have been a horrible journey,” she said.
“Slavers can be brutal, but they don't waste energy breaking those with no fight left,” he assured her. “Being half-dead, I was more of a burden to them, especially since they have a strong incentive to keep their commodities alive long enough for delivery. Despite my efforts to the contrary, they succeeded.”
“Maybe it's fortunate that slavers are good at what they do,” she teased.
He grunted at that. “I remember few details from those weeks in their company, though being dumped as a captive at the feet of the Trivantians was a notably inglorious moment.” It might have stung worse had his spirit not already been numb. As it was, hardly anything mattered at the time, though there had been one ironic twist that he could appreciate even then. “In the end, that transaction did not prove as profitable as expected. The Triangle preferred that it remain a secret, so the slavers were also imprisoned.” Few sounds had been as satisfying as the clang of the cell door next to his, as those unpleasant captors became nervous neighbors.
“What did the Trivantians do to you?” she asked.
“Not much—let me heal. It seems counterintuitive, but they needed me strong enough for torture. You never want to kill your source of information too soon. As a political prisoner, they were probably trying to decide what additional value I might have in trade. But a bureaucracy that large doesn’t move swiftly—I did a lot of waiting.”
“How did you know Baba was there?”
“It was hard not to notice. Edo Voss was proud of having subdued his brother, making it a point to gloat while he was being tortured.” The first word he had heard Baba speak sounded as if it had been torn from his throat, and that word was Edo. “They had your husband on the rack four days straight, but he was still a beast the moment they let their guard down,” he said appreciatively, remembering the unmistakable crack of a skull striking something less resilient, and the shocked cries of outrage it had caused.
“Baba had a fire that could never be quenched,” Maghra said with conviction.
“That he did,” he agreed. Even at Baba’s weakest moments, his rage seemed to fuel his life. He knew the man had been broken, someplace deep, yet somehow he had reforged himself. “I’m afraid you’ve been left with little but ashes,” he said regretfully.
“When properly applied, ashes can heal,” she proposed.
“True,” he said slowly, wondering what more she meant by that, besides the obvious. “Did Paris teach you that?” The presage had been a source of wisdom and healing, on more than one level.
“Yes,” she said. “Among many things.”
“I once told her some of what I just told you. She was convinced I was evil, but I felt she deserved an explanation.” As one of a handful of people to survive the ravages of his army, Paris had been understandably distrustful.
“What was her reaction?” she asked.
“Oddly hopeful, though I could still hear her revulsion. She told me I must ‘fight for the light’.”
“And are you, now?”
He could guess what Maghra wished to hear, but what Paris had hoped for did not feel like the truth, and he was unable to bend his mind around a lie.
“I can't know where the light falls, or the darkness begins,” he admitted. “I only know that what I once cared about was destroyed, as I have destroyed what others created.” He imagined his family in Kanzua facing an unstoppable wall of water, even while the last of the Alkenny bled into the dirt of their smoldering village. “You can blame these events on individuals—for good reason—but we're part of a cycle, which nothing escapes. For years I believed I was serving a nation, but I now realize it's just nature—and she's the most merciless mistress of all.”
“Worse than Sibeth?” she asked skeptically.
“Infinitely,” he answered without hesitation.
“Well,” she said, standing suddenly, “you seem to have learned much from your ordeals.” There was the scrape of a half-empty glass across stone.
“I've only learned how little I know,” he replied. He felt a momentary pressure on his shoulder, and heard the whisper of folding silk, as Maghra resumed her place on the ground next to him. The pleasant aroma of wine wafted between them.
“That's still more than me,” she sighed.
“At least you know the rest of this story,” he said, navigating back to the subject.
“Baba trusted you, after you escaped?”
“Not remotely.” His lips twitched back from his teeth, as he recalled how difficult it had been for the warrior to accept his help.
“But he took the chance,” she stressed.
“Yes,” he conceded. “He was desperate to find you. And also ready to gut me, had your reaction to my return been less than positive.”
“Then I’m glad I didn’t forget your voice,” she chided.
“Ah,” he coughed, remembering how he had nearly killed her upon her unexpected return to the realm. “I do regret that,” he said sincerely. “But, what can I say? It didn’t ring any bells,” he added dryly.
“Until I did?” she said with a surprised laugh.
“Exactly.”
There was a quiet jingle as her ringed hand sought his. He let her take it. Though he had never asked for her forgiveness, he valued it above all that was left to him.
~
Finishing her wine, Maghra said a silent thanks to Harlan, before putting down the glass, and taking Tamacti’s calloused hand in both of hers.
Listening to him speak of Baba with rare respect, she realized what seemed to be jealousy towards Harlan was more likely an affinity for Baba—he had been defending her true husband's rightful place as king. It made her as much proud as sad, knowing Tamacti would have approved of him as a ruler.
Whatever the men in her life had thought of each other, they set aside their differences so she could achieve the directive bestowed by her father. She would never have done it without each of them. “After all that happened, I was lucky you came back,” she told the reluctant survivor of that pack.
“Well, you are the queen,” he said, as if no other reason were necessary.
Part of her hoped that was not his sole motivation. “Only because you helped make me the queen,” she said, somewhat searchingly. She heard a quiet chuckle in response.
“I had to make it worth my time.” There was a faint echo of his old egotism. “It also occurred to me that I was alive, and in that prison, to find your family, and fulfill your final charge,” he added. “It seemed an odd coincidence otherwise.”
She had to agree it felt more like fate than chance. The suffering of each had brought them all together. “I never truly thanked you for bringing Baba and Haniwa back to me.”
“A soldier never expects gratitude, only the next order,” he replied rather stoically.
It was the sort of comment her sister would have approved of, but Maghra knew he no longer felt bound to the monarchy, staying only because she asked him to. She was grateful for that, whether or not he expected it.
“But a friend should not take another for granted,” she admitted, squeezing his hand.
“Perhaps. But at least they'll forgive you for it,” he said tactfully.
She heard the changing of the guard outside. “I didn't realize it was so late. I should probably go,” she said reluctantly.
“Probably so,” he agreed. But he must have sensed her hesitation when she made no move to uncurl her fingers from his. He raised them upwards. “You know, the God Flame rises in a few hours. No point heading into the cold when you can remain here,” he offered, breath warming her hand. For a lingering moment his lips touched her skin, rather than her rings, as he always had before.
A question bloomed in her mind. But before she had composed the words, he stood and went to the door. She heard the soft drag of his cloak against the floorboards.
“I'll leave word for your maids to attend you in the morning,” he said, clicking open the latch.
The question withered on her tongue. “Where are you going?” she asked instead.
“Elsewhere?” he answered, as if it should be obvious.
She shook her head in consternation. “You’re not even going to find an excuse?”
“No,” he replied flatly.
“So you admit, you have nothing better to do, than stay with me?”
“That's…accurate,” he confirmed.
“Then that's settled,” she concluded, her irritation abating. She was not sure what she had expected. Tamacti was practically guileless in comparison to Harlan, having made no attempt to claim what was left of her heart, though he was so often there to calm it. But after all that had been said, she required slightly more than words to get through the night.
“I don't want to be alone,” she said, finding the courage to admit it.
“Then you won't be,” he assured her, returning to kneel by the hearth. She heard him sorting through the firewood.
“Spare the log,” she directed, disrupting his search with her hand. “You can keep me warm.”
He snorted softly, but did as she suggested, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Though he had not volunteered for the assignment, she sensed no objection to it.
Nestled against the wool of his tunic, she breathed in his scent. It was layered deep with smoke and iron, almost like a battlefield. Yet she had always associated it with security, even in the time preceding her flight from Kanzua. Since then, he had saved her life, and her crown, while the only demand he made in return was that she fulfill her destiny. It was a tall order, but at least he offered the strength to help her do it.
Yawning, she closed her eyes, feeling slightly warmer within, as the wind continued its efforts to infiltrate the palace, and rain spattered across the ancient glass panes.
~
Tamacti said nothing, letting the storm's voice fill the room. His throat was dry from sharing far too much, and he would have loved to pour a glass of Harlan’s best, to forget some of it. But he could not move lest he disturb the queen.
The feathers she wore scratched lightly at his neck as she settled against him. A subtle fragrance of flowers wreathed her hair, but her own scent was sweeter still. He had committed it to memory the day he swore to protect her, half a lifetime ago. Though nearly everything had changed since then, his concern for her remained. It might be impossible to return to the naive devotion he once had for a monarch, but he could appreciate the woman for her own qualities. Ultimately, he did not have to do anything she said—but he preferred to.
He felt a sudden twinge in his chest where the knife—which once almost ended his service—had burrowed past bone. It was likely the change in weather awakening some dormant nerve, but it made him wonder if Maghra could heal the gash her sister had torn in his life. At the very least, she could hardly make it worse, he thought ruefully.
The weight of her head was growing heavier against his shoulder, and despite her wish to avoid it, she was obviously falling asleep. He smiled sadly. While he might not be good at keeping nightmares away, if necessary, he would face them with her.
As the heat from the hearth began to die, he held her close, until the fire burned down to ashes.