Goggin
Goggin’s thick arms felt like rubber. His skin was burned and blistering after days under the harsh sun. The current had been fighting him the entire way as he rowed his small boat from the Dreadnoughts toward the main Calypsian peninsula.
At first he felt like he was making good progress, the Scarra desert to the distant west passing by quickly, but he soon realized that distance was difficult to judge on the open sea.
Finally, however, the day had come when he would make landfall. He’d spied the reflection of the sun on the glass-domed archives of Citadel from a long way off, and steered his course further westward. Though landing at the City of Wisdom was tempting—he could borrow a guanik for the remainder of the trip—it was a foolish idea. For all he knew, those who’d usurped the empire were watching all the ports.
Beneath his oars, the water turned dark blue to green to turquoise, and then he was in the shallows. The urge to leap from the boat and plunge into the water was powerful, but he resisted. He could feel the weight of the small pouch tied to his belt, the one that contained the sand from the Dreadnoughts.
My army, he thought, a spark of fear igniting in his chest. There was no going back now. He would make his way to Calypso, determine the situation, and then decide what to do. But he wouldn’t hesitate to spill the sand if he needed to. Sometimes monsters were required where men and women failed.
He didn’t bother dragging the boat ashore, watching it drift away. He wondered whether it would float all the way back to the Dreadnoughts, whether Joaquin would find it.
He dashed away the thought, taking a moment to untie his pouch and peek in at the sand. The grains shifted slightly under his gaze. Such a small thing, he thought. He’d always believed that size and strength were power. And then he’d met Raven. She was such a slight woman, less than half his size. Less than half his strength. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t powerful.
He prayed to all the gods he’d ignored most of his life that she was still alive.
He closed the pouch and tied it off, testing the knots thrice before allowing it to dangle from his waist once more.
He eyed the position of the sun, using it to determine the correct direction. And then he started walking.
His back was bent, his legs as limp as the body of a dead snake. Goggin’s water had run out a day earlier. He’d found a few plants known to contain moisture, but when he cracked them open they were dried out husks. Like him, it was a wonder they were still standing at all.
His stomach no longer growled nor ached, too shrunken even for that.
He knew he had to be close, or at least that was what he told himself. In truth, if he’d missed his aim, he could be wandering a barren desert hundreds of miles wide in each direction.
He staggered on, each step harder than the last.
After a time, his legs faltered and then gave out completely. From there, he crawled, first like a child, then like a snake, dragging himself across the rough terrain.
Eventually, he stopped. The relentless sun did not, baking him alive as he slept.
For the second time in as many months, Goggin awoke staring at a stranger. He was dark-skinned with dark eyes, clearly Calypsian, a thatched roof hovering over his head like a fancy hat.
“You should be dead,” he said.
Goggin said, “Urgharghgrug?” by which he meant, “I’m not?”
“You have no possessions but a bag of sand.”
Goggin reached for the pouch tied to his waist, but found nothing. He tried to sit up, but couldn’t even lift his head. “Waaah?” he said. It was slightly more coherent than his last attempt at speech, and the man offered a ladle of water, which he lapped at like a cat.
“Slowly,” the man said. “Or you’ll be ill.”
The water cooled his parched throat and he closed his eyes. Where am I? There were small villages scattered throughout the desert, but most of them were located close enough to the cities that they could travel there to sell their wares and resupply. He was well away from Citadel and nowhere near Zune, which meant he must be near Calypso.
“How far…to Calypso?” he rasped.
“For you? A twelve-day crawl.” The man chuckled slightly at his own joke. He ran a hand over his bald scalp. “For a normal man…half a day. We go there often.”
He tried to sit up again, but found his own weight as heavy as a mountain. “I must go. Immediately.”
“You are dehydrated and malnourished and suffering from overexposure to the sun. You must rest and recover. A week at the least.”
“A day at the most,” Goggin said.
“I cannot stop you.”
“No,” Goggin agreed. “You cannot.”
Later, when Goggin managed to sit up and the man brought cold, fruity soup and a small spoon, Goggin said, “Thank you.”
“My wife made the soup.”
“I meant for saving my life.”
“You don’t like the soup?” He chuckled again. “Sorry. I like to laugh. At myself most often.”
Goggin managed a smile, though it felt as weak as his body. “The soup is good. Give your wife my thanks for that too. My first wife made soup like this.”
“She died?”
Goggin snorted out a laugh. “That demon can’t be killed!”
He spooned more soup while the man watched him curiously. “Why are you so anxious to get to Calypso? The city is in chaos.”
Goggin froze. “What kind of chaos?”
“How long have you been wandering the desert?” the man asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Felt like forever.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Calypso…” Goggin said, trying to get the conversation back on track. His heart was pounding too fast, too hard.
“After the defeat in Ferria—”
“What defeat?”
The man’s eyes widened. “It’s all anyone has been talking about.”
“Enlighten me.”
“The dragons were killed. The defeat was absolute.” Oh gods. I pushed Raven into the attack. She tried to stop it, but Shanolin…
Oh Raven. I’m sorry. So sorry.
“What else?” Goggin growled.
“There is a new empress, but that’s only the start of it.”
Holy gods…so it’s true. The coup in the east was only the beginning. “What empress?”
“Viper Sandes.”
The snake! Goggin wondered if she was behind the dragon attack or if the two events were unrelated. “What of her niece, Whisper?” He kept his voice even, steady.
“Zune,” he said.
“What?”
“The fighting pits. Raven and Whisper are both there. Word is that they’ve been fighting together every night. Beasts. Other criminals. They haven’t been killed yet, or so I’ve been told. But they will. None survive the pits.”
Though the news was a shock, Goggin focused on only one part of it. They’re alive. She’s alive. It didn’t matter that it made no sense, only that it was true. It was all the motivation he needed. But he was only one man, his guanero murdered in the ocean, drowned with their steeds.
Yes, one man. A man with an army of monsters.
“Where is my sand?” he asked.
“Just here,” the man said, gesturing to a bench with a pouch on it.
Goggin smiled.
Seventy-Two
Teragon
Roan Loren
Teragon was a strange place, thick with lush, tangled jungles and dry flatlands devoid of life.
Windy navigated using a detailed map from one of the books she’d brought, saying little, muttering often.
Yela, accustomed to such behavior, barely seemed to notice her eccentricities.
Roan, on the other hand, couldn’t hold his tongue. “What was that?” he asked, after she’d been muttering nonstop for several minutes. Windy’s head jerked up from the map, looking at him as if his appearance was as unexpected as a spring beetle in a snowstorm.
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“You want tea?” she asked. “Yes, we should stop for tea.”
Roan groaned, though he’d brought it on himself. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?
They stopped and Yela built a small fire, coaxing it with dry palm fronds. Windy boiled tea. Roan gestured to a soft spot of ground, the mud oozing from a recent rain. “We could just drink that and save you the trouble.”
“Your humor devolves with each passing day,” Windy said, pouring a cup of boiling sludge. “Have you been ill?”
The change of pace surprised him. “No.”
“The tea,” Windy said with a wink, passing him a cup.
Roan wrinkled his nose at the smell, held his breath, and skulled it, trying not to spew it back up. He thought, perhaps, the mud would taste better. “Satisfied?” he said.
“Not until we find Blackboots,” Windy said, hurriedly packing up their things. I guess morning tea is over already, Roan thought wryly.
He stood, and turned to head back down the path, nearly screaming when he came face to face with several bodies nestled before him, blocking the way forward. Their skin was a deep, rich crimson, their hair coppery. The men wore their hair long, almost to their waists, while the women kept it hacked short. They were lean and tall, holding crude weapons—naught but sticks sharpened to points.
Behind him, Windy said, “We are traveling to Shi, are we going in the right direction?”
Roan was stunned by her audacity. They knew nothing about these people, and she was asking for directions.
“Yes,” one of them said, a woman with sparkling blue eyes. “But there is nothing there. The slavers return from time to time, so no one lives in the village anymore.”
Roan eyed the weapons, and the woman noticed. “For hunting. Wild pigs. They are strong even when caught in our traps.”
Roan released a sigh of relief, glad that the books were right. Even after all these people had been through, they were still a peaceful nation. “I’m Roan,” he said.
“Condor,” the woman said. She made the rest of the introductions, though Roan suspected he wouldn’t remember any of the names save hers.
“This is Windy and Yela,” he said.
The woman nodded at each of his companions. “Why do you seek to find Shi? There is nothing there but death.”
“We are looking for a man,” Roan said. “We think he went there.”
“He is no man,” Condor said.
Roan remembered Gwen’s tale of Blackboots transforming into a bear to help her fight off the wood nymph queen. “We know. But you’ve seen him?”
“Sensed him. He passed through here.”
“Can you lead us? We have some coin for trading.”
The woman waved his offer away. “We will lead you, but your coin is worthless here. The images of kings and queens, emperors and empresses, hold no value to our people.”
Roan nodded. “Then we will share our food.” They’d packed more than enough for the return journey.
The woman nodded, satisfied. “Come with me.”
Condor spoke as she walked, though she didn’t turn back. “These jungles have allowed those of us who remain to survive. The Phanecians have tried to hack them down to find us, but the foliage is thick and stubborn. They cannot burn it either, for rain falls every day, making for poor kindling.”
Roan hadn’t been certain what to expect, but he’d hoped there were still people here. The thought of the Phanecians stealing away an entire nation…
They would if they could. And that is why I am here. To learn. To figure out how the fatemarked can fix a broken world.
They marched on. From time to time, Windy stopped to examine a tree or leaf, dictating while Yela made notes in a book full of blank pages. Roan huffed impatiently, until finally Windy said, “We are still scholars. Shi will be there when we arrive.”
“But Bear Blackboots might be gone. Or dead, bored of waiting.”
Windy ignored the retort, already back to studying a purple leaf the size of Roan’s entire body.
Eventually, they reached a small stream nestled within the bowels of the jungle. It pooled at a high fall of water, splashing down in a sheet, its sound of a quality more ear-pleasing than music, or so Roan thought.
“Into the water,” Condor said. Her companions were already splashing into the stream, which appeared to be waist-high.
Roan hesitated for a moment, but then Windy said, “Just like drinking the tea,” and pushed past him. Yela gave him a shove, and in he went, almost falling.
She laughed, grabbing his hand to hold him steady. Her grip was firm and warm. “Is this something scholars do, too?” he asked, managing a smile. The water was a nice temperature and the current was weak. Smooth stones shifted underfoot as he waded upstream with Yela.
“No. It’s something Lady Windy does,” Yela said. “She seems willing to try almost anything. Secretly, I think she’s a thrill-seeker.”
Ahead of them, the Terans had reached the waterfall, standing before it and gazing at the shimmering, crystalline sheet. Roan had seen a few waterfalls while in Ironwood, but none like this one. The fall of the water was so clean and precise that it might’ve been a plate of glass.
He took a step forward, wanting to get a closer look…
An image flashed in the falls, there and then gone again.
It was…or had been…a face. But not just any face—it had been his face.
Condor chuckled at Roan’s shocked expression. “Art is a part of our culture. And while streaming was discovered in the Four Kingdoms, it made its way to Teragon many years ago.”
Roan couldn’t hold back the laugh. “Will they do it ag—”
Another image flashed, cutting off his question. Another face, there and then gone, but clear as day in Roan’s mind. A drawing of Windy, accurate all the way to her bee-hive hair and stern jawline. A third image flashed and this time it was Yela, strong and bright and wearing a smile, which made her smile in real life.
If they are drawing us…then they must be close. Roan tipped his head back and looked up the face of the falls, where a group of young Terans broke into laughter before ducking away. For them to draw so quickly, they must be talented indeed.
The image of a dragon appeared just before Condor said, “Step through the falls.”
Windy didn’t hesitate, moving for the sheet of water. Roan stepped in front of her, determined not to be outdone this time. He plunged through, water cascading around his shoulders, streaming down his face.
The space inside took his breath away.
Roan blinked several times, certain his eyes deceived him. For though it was a cave he’d stepped into, it was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Sheets of water flowed down the walls, which rose to a high ceiling many times his own height. On every wall, images flashed in and out. Pictures of people, scenery, events. Here a ship sailing on a turbulent ocean. There an animal with a large snout fleeing through the jungle. A circle of huts with a lone man standing between them. Roan’s head swiveled to take it all in.
Windy shoved in next to him, her mess of hair now saturated and dripping. Yela was a step behind, flanking him on the other side. They, too, stared in awe.
“It’s…” Windy said, but even she couldn’t find the words. If not for his own amazement, Roan would’ve been amused to witness the greatest scholar in the world speechless.
Terans moved about the space, glancing at them but apparently unperturbed by their presence. They were preparing food, washing clothes, hanging strips of meat to dry.
Condor and the other Teran hunters emerged from the backside of the falls, shaking the moisture from their hair and scalps.
A hidden village deep in the jungle, Roan thought. No wonder they’ve managed to avoid detection by the Phanecian slavers for so long.
Windy, finally finding her voice, turned and said to Condor, “Inkreeds grow beneath each wall?” She pointed to the reedy stalks at the base of the walls.
Condor nodded.
“Yes. And at the top of the falls. The artists take turns showcasing their art inside the cave.”
“To what end?”
Condor shook her head. “Terans aren’t like those from the Four Kingdoms. We do not need an end for every action. It is the doing that is important. These artists paint because they love art. And they share what they love without expectation of reward.”
Windy nodded. “I have studied Teran culture before and read something similar. This is because of the Seven Virtues, yes?”
Condor smiled much the way an adult would smile at a child who was trying to understand something well above their experience. “Your books tell but the minutest fraction of our history.”
Roan held his breath, waiting for the sharp response of a woman who thought she knew everything, who had an intelligent saying ready for any situation. It didn’t come, however. If anything, Windy looked…excited. “I want to learn,” she said. “I want to learn…everything.”
Condor laughed, but it sounded genuine. “You would require more than the years you have left. But we will teach you some things in the time that we have. If you wish.”
Time. That word jolted Roan from all the beauty in this cave. It seemed…wrong…him being here while those he cared about were embroiled in war and violence. The fear of returning to a land of strangers shot through him like a poisoned dart.
He felt a hand on his arm. Yela looked at him. “You are doing the right thing. We will make haste on the morrow. We can do nothing further tonight. Try to enjoy it.”
His body loosened, his tensed muscles retracting. She was right. He couldn’t help save the kingdoms this very instant. Still…he was haunted by the memory of the anger in Gwen’s eyes last he’d seen her. If someone as good as she desired such vengeance, what hope was there for the rest of the population?
“I can’t linger,” he said. “I will go alone if I must, travel all night.” He was so close now…to delay further would kill him.
Windy said, “Don’t be mad. We’ll stay here tonight and leave first thing in the morning.”