Chapter 2

  Akkama: five years BK

  The golden light of late afternoon seeped between curtains of plaited silk into the princess’s bedchamber. A stray bar of radiance penetrated a pale blue crystal resting on a desk; its light scattered into a galaxy of blue refractions that crept along the whitewood table, sparkling on the facets of other gemstones. Warm, still, silent.

  A breeze ruffled the curtains softly. A presence entered the room, unseen, hardly disturbing the lazy motes of dust drifting in the shadows. A movement, a slither, a whisper, the soft clunk of wood, a brief curse of pain. Fire flared up in the hearth. Shortly after, candles lit one by one until a dozen yellow tongues of flame revealed the sleeping figure of a princess wrapped up in blankets, her jeweled brow aglint in the candlelight.

  The intruder sat beside the fire, produced a finely crafted erhu, and began a soft melody. Very soft it was, for she was not keen on being discovered and thrown out, or perhaps executed. The music, though subtle, moved the flickering of the fire and the candleflames in time, and the body of the intruder glimmered like coals.

  After some time, the princess stirred on her bed and sighed. She rose up, the very picture of elegance, and sought the source of the music. Then, elegance forgotten, she tumbled laughing from the bed, scurried across the floor and embraced the player, interrupting the music. “Akkama!” she said, though she kept her voice at a whisper.

  The intruder giggled and shoved the princess away.

  “I thought you couldn’t come!” the princess exclaimed. She stood with grace and set about the business of making herself presentable: jewels, sashes, sandals. She adorned herself with crystals to match the purple arda on her forehead, and she slipped into a regal, flowing dress, and she began arranging her long, silky, violet-streaked hair into a complex braid. The intruder, watching this procedure with interest, wore only a plain dark traveler’s suit, its carbon fiber mesh torn and dusty from the road, and she carried only a small backpack.

  “Of course I came,” said Akkama. “Did you doubt me? Because of the martial law?”

  “No, because your clan leader told you he’d shatter your arda himself if he caught you coming over here again.” The princess Zayana selected a long looping sash of blue and purple, the color the sunset outside would soon leave behind.

  Akkama growled and stuck a hand into the fire, making a fist as though to crush the flames. “I’m not afra…” She couldn’t say it. At last she muttered, “I don’t care what he says.”

  “You’ve got to be careful , Kamy!” Zayana opened the curtains enough to let in the last rays of sunshine. She stared out at the castle which swept down away from her to the outer walls. The Shogun’s palace across the sea had turrets, anti-air ordinance, force-field projectors, and many other eyesores. The grand castle of Meszria below her was just as well defended in its own way, yet it remained beautiful. The Water-Keeper, the Westing cloud, and the old powers of the world tended to be less obtrusive. “How did you get past the marid? Thaevrit put it out last week.”

  Akkama preferred to be mysterious, so she did not reply. In truth, she would never have gotten past the marid had she not stolen one of Zayana’s purple crystals, a piece of her very arda, the last time she was here. The marid had almost caught her anyway.

  “Well. In any case,” said Zayana. “I’m glad you were able to come. Though you will be in such trouble when you’re caught.”

  “If.”

  Zayana joined Akkama, crouched down by the fire. “I just want this conflict done with. But there is nothing we can do.”

  “Too young,” Akkama agreed, not happy about it.

  “And there will never be any younger.” Zayana hugged her arms around her knees and gazed into the dancing flames.

  Akkama found this amusing. “We will always be the youngest,” she laughed. “We missed out on having littler daimon to boss around. Oh wait, no, because you’re a princess.” She reached out a hand and gave Zayana a playful shove. “You can boss whoever you want.”

  “Well, you’re a clan heir.” A return shove, a smile. “Must be so hard.”

  The fire flourished upward and twisted into half-formed shapes. The candles danced and flickered. Akkama was no good at hiding her emotions when fire was near. She averted her gaze from Zayana. “It is hard,” she muttered.

  “Ah. I’m sorry. Did something happen?”

  Akkama didn’t want to talk about it. She said nothing. But she reached out a hand, and Zayana took it. Zayana’s touch felt cool to Akkama. Probably everyone’s hand felt cool compared to hers, but Akkama wouldn’t know because Zayana was the only person in the world whom she allowed to hold her hand. Zayana was the only one to whom Akkama had shown her stars. Willingly.

  “Let’s go,” said Zayana with a squeeze. “Before the whole castle is awake. The Majesty is nearby as well.”

  Akkama became still for a moment before forcing a crooked smile onto her face. “Y…haha, yeah. Let’s go.”

  Zayana glided about the room, gathering her things. Another minute and they were at the door. Zayana reached for the handle and hesitated. “Wait,” she said. “I think that’s—”

  A firm knock made the two of them jump. Zayana hissed at Akkama, waving her vaguely back into the room. Hide!

  “Th—Thaevrit?” asked Zayana, stalling for time while Akkama slithered under her bed. “Is that you?”

  “It’s me, princess,” said an exasperated voice from the other side of the door. “The other princess.”

  Zayana waited a moment longer before opening to admit Thaevrit, beast-keeper and first in line for the Meszrian throne. If the Majesty somehow perished this evening, the woman standing before Zayana would command the largest unified nation in the world by sunrise. She was purple, of course, and although it was not immediately obvious to what manner of creature she had bonded, Zayana knew it to be an otter. Thaevrit wore the usual rough armor of hardened skate leather, the smooth tan scales scored with the claw-marks of her many pets and projects. Kartha, her consort, stood attentively behind her, wearing a simple green vest that accentuated his green eyes and the feathery green spines around his face. Owl. Tall and lean, he seemed to loom sternly over the shorter Thaevrit. He would have appeared intimidating, were it not for Thaevrit’s pet flying squid, named Flibby, perched on his shoulder like an absurd opalescent doll.

  “I…didn’t sense you,” said Zayana.

  “I know,” said Thaevrit. She looked up at Zayana with a hint of a smile. “I did not mean you to. And you will have to learn that trick as well, especially if you intend to let the Shogunate brat keep slipping into your chambers. Yes, I don’t need eyes to see you under there, Akkama. Nor does Kartha. You can’t hide from either of us, not without the princess’s help.”

  Zayana hung her head as Akkama cursed and squirmed out from under the bed. “Sorry,” said Zayana.

  “You’ll be apologizing to the Majesty if you aren’t careful,” Thaevrit replied.

  Zayana’s eyes widened. “He…he’s here?”

  “He returned this morning. And if he’s paying attention, he’ll notice a certain snake in his castle.”

  Akkama laughed, but it was a weak, nervous laugh. “What does it matter if we’re already at war?”

  Thaevrit opened her mouth, but Zayana spoke first. “His foremost concern is the wellbeing of Meszria. You as a captive would serve that purpose well.”

  “My concern will someday be the same,” said Thaevrit. She folded her arms in front of her and adopted an expression that more than made up for her small stature. The violet crystals on her cheeks glinted, and a peculiar gravity seemed to assert itself around her, drawing in their attention. “As may yours, Zayana.”

  Zayana folded her arms across her chest in imitation of Thaevrit and turned aside. “I doubt it,” she said.

  “Yeah, how much longer do you think your kingdom will last, anyway?” Akkama added. “‘Cause I can tell you, the Shogunate’s got a foot in the void, and I’m not talking about the offworld stations.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  A moment of silence greeted this. Thaevrit closed her eyes and exhaled. She didn’t like being reminded that the kingdom she was to take possession of one day was dying. That the whole world was dying. She was a few years older than Zayana, yet still among the youngest daimon that would ever exist.

  Kartha stepped into the room. “You’re hurt,” he said to Akkama. He reached out toward her, but she hissed and hopped backward.

  “I’m fine,” she muttered, glaring at the floor. Kartha shrugged and resumed his position behind Thaevrit as though nothing had happened. Zayana glanced at Akkama. Hurt? She hadn’t noticed.

  “I won’t tell the Majesty,” said Thaevrit. “But you have to be more careful from now on. He’s increasing security. Gods, he even wants me to find a vesta.”

  “Misprision, Thaevrit?” Zayana asked with a hint of playfulness. “And you too, Kartha?”

  “It’s yourself you should worry about,” Thaevrit answered. The warning in her words was somewhat undermined by Flibby, who chose this moment to perch atop Thaevrit’s head like a silly hat, cocked dashingly askew.

  “Thanks, Thaevrit,” said Zayana.

  The other princess stepped forward and surprised Zayana with an embrace. “We must watch out for each other, eh?”

  Zayana hugged back. Flibby, not to be left out, flounced over and briefly joined the embrace. “Will you teach me how to mask auras later?”

  Thaevrit stepped back. “Anything for my sister-heir. Take the lower courtyard exit. The interference from the shortwave relays should cover your departure.” She turned and glided down the hall, Kartha accompanying her like a tall green shadow.

  Shortly after, Zayana and Akkama crept down the hall, down several flights of stairs, through the labyrinthine passages of the interior of the castle, down a swift elevation shaft, and finally across the eastern courtyard. They encountered others in the castle, some of whom greeted Zayana or bowed to her as they passed. There weren’t as many in the castle as there had once been. And with the war, and the end of the daimon race, it was deeply unlikely that such numbers would ever return. This castle would grow only more empty.

  The Westing cloud was thick in the eastern courtyard. It curled around Zayana in a cool, damp embrace when she first stepped into its blue and pink swirls. It whispered into her mind: images of the goings on elsewhere in the castle, glimpses of sights and sounds and smells from the surrounding fields and the city. An old daimon enjoyed a peaceful walk in a moonlit grove. Delicious bread baked in a kitchen half a mile away. Sinister intent coiled in the shadows, but it was only the marid raging at birds in flight. Zayana briefly saw two lovers mingling; she even felt their sensations before she shoved the image away in embarrassment. She wondered about the Majesty, where he was and what he was doing, but it was too dangerous asking the Westing cloud to tell her about him. He would know. Instead, she asked it to hide her presence, along with Akkama. It swirled around her in affection. She promised it some nice arda later, infused with her feelings and memories.

  “I hate that thing,” Akkama grumbled before they were even outside of the cloud, unaware that her discomfort was just another delicacy for it.

  And the Westing cloud, as a parting gift, gave Zayana a whisper of Akkama’s mind, her mingled discomfort and elation at being here across the sea. Akkama lived in a palace full of velvet curtains and golden spires, of tapestries and robots and beds with soft fireproof sheets. But she had never cared for these things. Akkama preferred to vanish from her bright palace and slip into dark smoky longhouses where scarred men told tales of valor and peril. Knights and explorers, sea-farers and space-farers, Akkama would watch from the shadows with wide eyes, causing the fireplace to flare when they spoke of monsters and pounded their blistered fists upon the table.

  At the vehicle bay, it was no difficulty for Zayana to secure a small drifter and escape out into the night. Zayana piloted the two-seater up across the vast dark fields east of the castle, to the higher steppes where her observatory lurked among the crags. The drifter coasted smoothly through the cool, clear air, hardly disturbing the grains below as it skimmed a pace or two above them. They rose up through the high plains, leaving behind the sprawling castle by the inland sea.

  They spoke as they traveled of the troubles of their respective nations, the nonsensical war. Both the Kingdom of Meszria and the Shogunate, the two greatest powers on Infernus, blamed the other for the sudden cessation of newfallen daimon. This tension, tinged with the desperation of a dying race, had aggravated the already tenuous political situation into a chaotic conflict. Meanwhile, each sought to remedy the problem on their own: the Shogunate through scientific research and space exploration, the Kingdom by delving into the ancient mysteries of the world and its magic. It was for these acts that each blamed the other for the end of the world. Maybe when Zayana and Akkama grew up, the princess and the clan heir, they could stop it. But that was only a fantasy they indulged in. By the time they were that old, it wouldn’t matter.

  Zayana drew them to a halt at a random location on the upper steppes, twenty miles from the castle, in view of Mount Koshna and the observatory on its slopes. The rings of Infernus glittered above and the stars shone bright and clear in the cold sky as the two young friends went gallivanting in the darkness. Zayana had brought her bow, and she practiced shooting the flickering blue will-o-wisps that coalesced to watch. She couldn’t harm them; they hardly seemed to notice when an arrow passed through them. Akkama tried to chase them down to demonstrate her remarkable prowess at the blade, but of course, they were too quick. She showed off to Zayana anyway, slashing at the air, demonstrating forms she had practiced for hours and days and weeks, and her own personalized variations thereof. She was a child like Zayana, but she danced with her sword as naturally as the marid frolicked in its pools.

  “But I’m going to be better,” she declared to Zayana as she skipped up onto an angled slab of rock and positioned herself at the peak, one foot planted at the top as though ready to leap up into the void. Akkama leveled her blade at the heavens in challenge, just as she imagined her heroes doing—those adventurers who braved many dangers, who saw great sights. “The hero comes!” Akkama declared to the heavens, as though she were giving them fair warning. That was the catchphrase of her idol, the apocryphal Captain Shard.

  Zayana smiled. “Captain Shard wasn’t real, Akkama. She was a folk hero for the star nomads. She’s just a story.”

  “I’m real,” came the reply. “And I will be the hero. Showing up to save everyone at the final hour! But first, I need to be strong. Strong enough that I never get hurt again.”

  “Again? Akkama, wha–”

  “Strong like the Shogun. Fearless!”

  Zayana frowned. The Shogun was known for his violence and cruelty. Zayana thought the Majesty a superior object of aspiration.

  “Well then,” said Zayana. “We can practice together.”

  “Ha!” Akkama slashed at the night sky, her eyes and crystals glimmering red. “I’ve got a better idea. I’m going to find the Desert Watcher.” Zayana began to say something, but Akkama overrode her. “It’s going to give me a wish. I’ll ask to never be afraid again.” She grinned ferociously at the stars as though defying them. Her fangs glinted in their light.

  “I’ve heard of the Desert Watcher,” said Zayana, carefully. “Thaevrit told me.”

  Akkama scoffed at the mention of Thaevrit and leapt down from the rock. She rolled when she struck the ground, came to her feet and lashed out at imaginary enemies. She snipped the seeding heads off the tall grasses around her, cutting wide arcs.

  “She said it’s dangerous,” Zayana continued, raising her voice so Akkama could hear. “Even if you can find it. Everything it gives has a price, and she says it’s never worth it. It’s always a curse.”

  Akkama returned, blade in hand. “Look,” she said. She raised the sword to point overhead. “How many stars are left? We are all the stars in the sky.”

  Zayana sighed. “You use the end of the world as an excuse for everything.”

  “It is an excuse for everything.”

  Zayana rolled her eyes. “If we had lived a hundred years ago, you’d have had to be more creative.”

  Akkama only grunted in response, and Zayana for the time gave up attempts to convince her. Akkama could hardly ever be convinced to rethink a course of action.

  They watched the lights for a time. Many of those lights were satellites or large constructs in orbit; some were skycraft. Many, as the night went on, proved to be fireflies. Fireflies congregated when Akkama was near.

  Zayana produced her harp and played a simple melody of haunting beauty. Akkama produced a book and wrote poetry to the music. The violet crystals of the princess shone with an inner light and produced a chimelike ringing sound, and they were joined by the fiery glow of Akkama. Their Songs—their unique, special songs more dear to them than their own names—rang together in the still dark of the night, accompanied by the harp, and they matched each other. No words were said; no words were needed.

  Their time of peace ended in the early hours of the morning, for it was then that the Thunder God died. Zayana flinched and cried out at the sudden sensation. It was a sense of loss, a profound atavistic emptiness, like the numb horror of awakening from the most beautiful dream and realizing it was only a falsehood. It came with thunder, of course, just as the death of the Burning God had come with fire and the Bleeding God with blood. The sound crashed through the skies above and splintered the heavens with sheer noise. Forked lightning spread from one end of the sky to the other like a vast spiderweb of fractures, as though the starry expanse were a shattering sheet of glass. For a long instant, the rocky field around them was illuminated as though by the brightest of noonday suns.

  And then, with a suddenness just as shocking as its arrival, it was all over. The light and the sound faded, but the sense of loss remained.

  They watched the sky in awe, each noticing the skycraft which plummeted blazing in the distance, equipment no doubt ruined.

  “He was the last,” said Akkama finally, her voice quivering. The last god. The greatest god.

  “Yes,” Zayana replied, not knowing what else to say. “Now we are the last.”

  “This is it. It’s all over. I…I knew it, but…” Akkama could not continue. She moved to sit by Zayana and stopped herself just short of putting an arm around her friend.

  “You know,” said Zayana, “I know someone who was going there. To the temple of the Thunder God. He was going to open the door.”

  Akkama laughed, relieved to have something to laugh about. “No one can enter the temple of the Thunder God.”

  Zayana shook her head. She didn’t know. “I wonder if he made it.” She looked up at the skies. No more gods. There would be no more stars. No more newfallen. There hadn’t been for years, but now it was certain. The stars would wink out, one by one.

  “We are all the stars in the sky,” she said to herself.