The Throne of the Gods

Prelude-4

Food no longer tasted like food. Even the salt in the barren wasteland bordering the Gardens of Aer had teased his sense of taste with hints of pomegranate and mint. Food was like sand now. Drink couldn’t fill Rogned—it only left a gaping abyss inside that seemed to grow with every goblet. People’s conversation grated like cracked cymbals. Voran’s company, which he had treasured only weeks before, preferring it to the company of anyone else, cut at him like knife thrusts. The only comfort he had was in walking, alone, among the sharp rocks.

There was whispering life in those rocks, a sliver of that same power that pulsed through the lands bordering the Gardens of Aer. He would stand before the Fang, his hands pressed to the cold stone, and the twisting agony in his chest, like thorns slowly burrowing into flesh, would fade to a dull ache.

One evening, he was walking back to the now unified camp of the two armies. They would soon begin the long journey to a place Voran called Ghavan Isle, to be presented as the new army of the Three Cities to Dar-in-Exile Mirnían of Vasyllia. It had been Voran’s idea, of course. But Rogned supported it. As much as he could muster support for anything these days.

The hundreds of campfires looked like clouds of fireflies. And they felt just as ephemeral. The two armies couldn’t possibly remain this friendly for long. Rogned wanted nothing to do with the coming war for Vasyllia’s reclamation. Not yet, at least. He wanted his final, fading memories of the Palymi’s presence.

He drifted through the knots of waiting warriors—eating, drinking, laughing, telling stories, simply staring into the night. He avoided them, as though he were an incarnate wind. As he passed by them, he heard snatches of conversation.

“. . . like a tower . . . just like old Nebesta, but greater by far . . .”

“. . . a watchtower on top, the fires reaching up higher than anything . . . a beacon to the Heights . . .”

They were talking about his sculpture, he realized. But something was wrong. These men were Nebesti, but in the adjoining Karila camp, two old men were mumbling to each other in archaic Karilan:

“. . . the rusted blade reforged, held in the hand of a Karakul reborn . . .”

“Yes, I recognized his face. Of course Rogned would put his own brother on the greatest work of art any man had ever made . . .”

They were talking about the same sculpture. But . . .

With a sinking feeling, Rogned realized he had no memory of the sculpting. Not the process, not the form, not even what it looked like.

He rushed back to his tent. The firelight threw back two shadows inside. Rogned heard Voran talking to the chief of Nebesta’s armies, a hard man named Yarpolk Dolgoruk.

“Are you mad? We all saw it! It was Vasyllia restored, every stone of it more glorious than it had ever been in years past!”

Yarpolk sniggered. “You would see that, you fanatic. Can’t you get it through your thick skull? Vasyllia is fallen. And if we ever come near it again, I would prefer to take each stone apart and pulverize it, not to put it all back together again!”

“What did you see, then?” challenged Voran, but Rogned heard a note of doubt in his voice.

“The River Nebestaala, a perfect sun rising over it. Two spears of fire and light crossed above it.”

“That’s . . . wait . . . that’s . . .”

Rogned fled. He thought he knew what had happened. His heart plunged to his feet.

Every person saw what he needed most in the sculpture.

There would be no peace. There would be no end to war. As soon as everyone realized what had happened, the old tribalism would cause fissures in the new unity. There could be no unity behind a prophet-prince who gave a different prophecy for each of his followers.

What madness! He could never lead. What was he thinking?

It struck him like a punch in the face—intense, shrieking longing. The Garden. It called to him.

What are you doing, playing power games? You can only help them in one way. Voran stopped you the first time. Now is the time to finish the journey.

Was it his own thought? Rogned didn’t care anymore.

* * * *

Rogned stood on the Fang in the light of the full moon. The tarn below him sparkled in the moonlight. There was music in the air, faint, barely audible, like a lone violin droning a single, plangent note. He recognized it. It was coming from the other side of the water. All he needed to do was jump.

He jumped.