54. [Red Tide] Solstice, Part Two (Patreon)

Red Tide, Enchantress of the 4th Renown, The Reef

Those she has met so far…

…and those she will meet soon

***

30 Frett, 61 AW

The northern edge of Besaden, North Continent

150 days until the next Granting

Throne Gazer stared into the empty black eyes of some stuffed beast. He did not know the name of the creature or even if it still existed in the world. The thing looked like a deer but with sharp, jutting horns, fur the color of sun-kissed sand, and a torso curved like a lightning bolt. A fine, graceful beast that Yodor Dominick had posed with its head peeking over its shoulder, one hoof lifted as if poised to run. Perhaps that is how the beast looked in its last moments.

The equine creature was one of many displayed in this house of dead trees. Throne Gazer had chosen a bedroom where a black bear loomed on its hind legs, stuck forever in a posture of readiness.

An urge had possessed Throne Gazer on his third night sleeping in the room with the bear. Aided by his [Balance+], he had maneuvered atop a bookcase and dragged his forearm across the bear’s fangs. The teeth were blunted and left only light marks on his skin. He could not give the bear a final taste of blood.

The trident master did not like this lodge. The trophies were obscene. If maintaining a diplomatic relationship with the beastlord wasn’t such a priority, he would have seen this place burn.

“Never let it be said that I am without restraint,” Throne Gazer declared aloud.

“Yeah, okay, I won’t,” Cuda Bite replied. “People are always telling me that you’re out of control, a shark in chum. I’ll set them straight.”

Throne Gazer favored the little skulker with a tight smile. Always jokes. He did not begrudge the younger man his constant need for levity. Throne Gazer had learned in this half-year outside the Grotto that such distractions were good for morale. He would happily be the butt of their jokes if it helped them survive.

“It’s no good,” Turtle Jaw said with a frown. “I’d hoped we might find a detour but there’s nothing out there for us.”

The three men stood around a hand-carved table in the center of the lodge’s dining area. The warden had poured his Ink onto the wood and made it into a map.

“What about this?” Throne Gazer asked. He tapped a pulsing blot of power far, far to the north. Nearly at the top of the world.

“That’s deep into the cold,” Turtle Jaw said. “I don’t know that the trolkin will let us go that far north. I don’t know that we’d even want to.”

“We stick to the plan then,” Throne Gazer said. “Attempt to make contact with this trolkin champion, then head east to join Salt Wall’s pod.”

Cuda Bite traced his finger across the blank space. “This is all going to be snow, right? We can’t just wait for it to melt?”

“You whine like a land-walker,” Throne Gazer said.

“Please.” Cuda Bite sniffed. “I whine better than any land-walker.”

The front door knocked open and Red Tide entered, brushing snow off her shoulders. All three men turned to look at her. That was always the way, wasn’t it? Their eyes chased her about constantly. It had gotten easier to ignore once Throne Gazer admitted to himself it was happening.

“The dogs are ready,” Red Tide said. Her eyes flicked to Throne Gazer. “The beastlord passes along a warning about you.”

Throne Gazer tilted his head. “Does he?”

“Does he,” Cuda Bite repeated stiffly.

Careful neutrality. Hidden emotions. These were the lessons he had learned from his mother—Deep Dweller—that were meant to help him rule the oca’em. He understood now that these traits had made him unapproachable to his own people, aloof, cold. But it was too late to change. He could not unlearn the sea witch’s teachings.

“He says you betray us to the merchants.” Red Tide smirked. “Good that he believes it. Means that shit stain Gucco did as well.”

Indeed. They had chosen Throne Gazer to approach the merchant scum after their introduction in Heartwood. String the merchants along. Agree to their machinations. Leave them in the lurch or betray them when it counted. Red Tide had said the approach would be most believable coming from him, and the others had readily agreed.

That had hurt his feelings. More so, because he knew they were right.

“You did well, Throne Gazer,” Red Tide said. Perhaps the damn enchantress could read him, after all. “You bought us options.”

“At the small price of my pride,” he said.

“Shit goes cheap when you got so much of it,” Cuda Bite added.

Throne Gazer turned his attention back to the map. It had been debasing, but Gucco had been eager to talk, like a man who never learned the consequences of words. Knowing who the merchants wanted to hurt was an advantage worth a bit of humiliation. Throne Gazer’s eyes drifted to the southern continent, to the Bay, and then the Gen’bi desert beyond.

If the Bay wanted the nomads dead, then the Reef would make them friends.

***

Onianatan pressed his hands to the hard soil on either side of the bulging root. The arborists told him that the redwood suffered. Its deep-diving tendrils had encountered a shelf of rock that, for years now, had stymied the tree's downward probing. They called upon Onianatan to do what he could, somewhat begrudgingly. Ten years, the paw print, the Ink of a champion, and they still viewed him as an outsider, even though his magic was said to hold hands with their magic. 

So be it. He liked it here. The call of the desert was distant. He could ignore it. Perhaps if he stopped dyeing his hair and beard crimson, the Besadenizens would better warm to him. It was a hard habit to let go, the last thing that connected him to his old people.

“You have old habits too, my friend, don't you?” he said to the redwood, not expecting an answer. 

First, he used [Earth Sense] to spread his awareness beneath the ground. No good would be done if he bulled into the process and disturbed the natural alignment of the land. Once sure he had found a peaceable path for the root to grow downward, Onianatan used [Quicksand]. A minor disturbance in the soil to let the root sink and spread, and it was fixed. 

The earth elementalist stood and dusted off his hands. A job well done, although one that most would never see. The anonymity suited him. He had never been one to chase glory, which was why his recent lifestyle change still nagged at him.

“Elementalist.” An arborist appeared at his side, having been watching in silence. “Zayda requests you.”

Onianatan nodded. He knew why the Quill of Besaden had selected him as champion. Because he was neutral between the three main factions of Besaden—the shifters, the arborists, and the old beastlords. Balance was necessary in any ecosystem. He had less understanding of why he’d accepted the role. Perhaps it was as the Ministry of Sulk preached—a calling.

He found Zayda on a branch platform overlooking one of the winter gardens. The mane of grass that grew from the Quill’s head and shoulders had gone light brown a bit at the edges. He wondered if she knew.

“You summoned me?”

Zayda patted the space next to her and Onianatan sat. “I hear you spend most days tilling earth and settling roots.”

“The work needs to be done,” he said.

“So it does,” Zayda admitted. “Your service is appreciated. But, you should know, I don’t keep a leash on my champions. Vikael and Meera range about when the urge takes them, and gods know where Yodor goes half the time. If you wish to seek more Ink, you have my leave to do so.”

Onianatan touched his chest. The gods had made him third renown. That seemed enough, for now. He still felt unused to their power.

“We are a peaceful people,” he said. “And so, I expect the Granting will be peaceful.”

“I suspect the Gen’bi will not find it so.”

Onianatan cocked his head, turning his ear to the south. He could hear it then, louder than usual because he listened for it. The call of the desert that drove the nomads to always move, always search, always dig, but never to find. He had come to Besaden to leave that madness behind.

“I owe the Gen’bi no debts,” he said. “I will not bloody my hands on their behalf.”

***

A harsh wind whipped across the plain. The horses jumped at the frigid goosing, picking up their pace as surely as if they’d had heels dugs into their sides.

“Winter’s further south this year,” Theo Adamantios, the axe master of Penchenne, declared. “Colder, too. We should have brought some tools for measurement. The trolkin always wish for a longer winter. Never know what you’ll get, though, with such an unspecific wish. I wonder if the Magelab has done any studies of that. What do the gods consider long?”

Sylvie Aracia stared at the back of Theo’s head. She was bundled in furs—as she had been most days during their journey back west—hugging herself while squeezing her horse with her legs. They stayed far enough north so that they wouldn’t get off course from their destination, but had tried to keep out of trolkin territory. She studied Theo’s ears, how bright pink they were, and his pale scalp looking frosted above his horseshoe of curly hair.

“You need a hat,” she said.

“I don’t mind it, actually,” Theo replied. “I think I’m naturally hot-blooded.”

“You’re painful to look at.”

“Well,” Theo said. “Ouch.”

Another day. Another dark mood. Try as she might, Sylvie could not shake free of them. At first, she thought traveling the road with Theo had done her good. She had skipped out on this responsibility last year—Theo’s first year as champion—and so he’d gone it alone. He probably preferred it that way, although he was too kind to say so. The travel had lightened her mind for a while, but then they’d reached Besaden and she had seen the corpse of an assassin with his belly cut open. A man who had swallowed a mind-controlling mushroom and gone into the woods to kill himself.

Sylvie could not stop thinking how that body had been left there for her. A message. But that wasn’t possible, was it?

“The gods are predictable about some things, at least,” Theo prattled on. “Every year, there’s Ink for those who would scale Nortmost. Only a few weeks now, and we’ll be there.”

A few weeks. Sylvia stifled a groan.

“Should be right around when the Ink usually appears,” Theo continued.

“If the gods are so predictable, why did you miss it last year?” Sylvie asked.

“Well…” Theo chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s a decent inn up that way. Does most of its business when champions come through. I didn’t want to see their coffers dry up, so really it’s my sense of charity that’s to blame.”

Sylvie shook her head. She could not believe this jovial fool was her champion. Her father had selected Theo personally. A workhorse, he’d called Theo. A nice change of pace for you, after the last one.

The last one. Sylvie gritted her teeth. In protest, she had refused to wear her sponsor’s stone for the Theo’s first Granting. He’d done well without her. He’d even…

“Theo?”

“Yes, Madam Aracia?”

“What’s it like to kill a man?”

For once, the blabbermouth didn’t have an immediate answer. In fact, he seemed to sink into himself a bit. His hand dropped to one of the axes on his hip, but then his fingers scuttled away like the handle was hot. Watching him, Sylvie regretted her question.

“Not something I enjoyed doing,” Theo said finally. “The man I killed was from Cruxton. He was young. Looking for glory. Obviously, he didn’t find it. His parents are still alive, and his sister. They work in the mines and—”

“Gods, Theo, why do you know all that?”

He shrugged. “Seemed easier not to know, so I decided to find out.”

 “Do you ever worry that they’ll come after you?” Sylvie asked. “The family from Cruxton, I mean. That they’ll seek revenge?”

“No,” Theo replied. “They seem good people who wouldn’t see the sense in that. He signed up for the Granting, as I did. It’s just the way of the world.”

Sylvie sank deeper into her furs, and said nothing more.

***

Mockery stood atop the ribcage of a giant and stared southward until her eyes burned.

Nothing but beautiful snow, beautiful cold. No movement. No little dots on the horizon. Not yet.

Behind her, in the village, her people would be preparing for the longest night. There would be revels. Fires, and meat, and contests, and sex. Mockery would take part in all that, but first she would begin her vigil. She would stand here every day until it was time.

Mockery was short for a trolkin, barely seven feet. Her blue-skinned body was lean and knobby, and hardly fit the gown that she had taken to wearing these last few weeks. A fancy dress—bright red and of smooth material with patterns of little holes made on purpose—something stolen from the southern cities. It reached only to her mid-thigh and burst open across her chest, which was fine, it showed off her Ink and the twin Xs where she’d cleaved off her teats.

This was a dress for society. A dress for welcome. A good first impression dress.

She lamented every blood stain she’d gotten on the dress. Killed those bleeders extra for the offense.

Something tickled Mockey’s bare toes and she tore her eyes from the horizon. Sprouts of frosswiss blossomed from a crack in the giant’s rib, the leaves bright blue and crystalline with ice. The giants were centuries dead, but the plant still grew from their marrow. As a trolkin, it was Mockery’s duty to harvest the frosswiss, keep half for herself, and add half to the community stockpile. Such was the way.

Mockery unsheathed one of her eight knives—the sharp one—and bent down to cut free the plant. It was only then that she noticed Blanket, her latest wife, down below, inside the giant’s rib cage and no doubt peering up Mockery’s dress.

“Must you follow me everywhere?” Mockery snapped.

“I didn’t follow you,” Blanket whined. “I came to find you. There’s been another challenge.”

“Lady Mockery,” Mockery said.

“What?” Blanket replied.

“When we are in public, I told you to call me Lady Mockery.” Mockery grabbed a handful of her own silver hair as if she might yank it out. “This is how we make a society.”

The wind howled through the ribs. Blanket looked around and kicked some snow.

“We aren’t in public.”

Mockery stared at her.

“Lady Mockery,” her stupid wife tried again. “There’s been a new challenger.”

There was always a new challenger. That was the problem with her people. Always killing each other for the Ink. How were any of them supposed to gain power if that kept going on? When she’d gained the quill—by killing, of course, but it was the only way—Mockery had changed the rules. These idiots could still challenge, but not each other, not whatever new champion she raised up to watch her back on the island. They could only challenge her.

“Did they pick a knife?” Mockery asked.

“The blunted one,” Blanket replied.

Mockery snorted. These challenges had become so boring that she let the challengers choose which of her blades Mockery would kill them with. They always chose the blunted one—always—even after Mockery had shown them, repeatedly, that it was one of the knife master’s deadliest.

Having finished cutting free the frosswiss, Mockery let the leaves and stems drop down to the ground below. Blanket scrambled to gather them. Mockery stood up straight and returned to her vigil.

“The challenge, Lady Mockery,” Blanket said, panting, when she’d finished. “Are you coming?”

“When I’m ready.”

“What are you doing up there, anyway?” Blanket said.

“Waiting,” Mockery said, “for my sister.”

“You don’t have a sister.”

Mockery sighed. Her wife would feel nothing but ugly jealousy if Mockery told her the truth. That she waited upon the one she’d seen in the smoke—the one who she would fight alongside, her battle-sister. Together, they would liberate two peoples. The frosswiss had shown her.

“She is from a village far away,” Mockery said. “You will know her by the music. Such beautiful music.”