Slaying the Vampire Conqueror

by Carissa Broadbent

Arachessen were not supposed to mourn the things we gave up in the name of our goddess—Acaeja, the Weaver of Fates, the Keeper of the Unknown, the Mother of Sorcery. We could not mourn the eyesight, the autonomy, the pieces of our flesh carved away in sacrifice.

Threadwhispers were very useful. Communication that couldn’t be overheard, that could transcend sound the same way we transcended sight. It was a gift from the Weaver, one for which I was very grateful.

Sisters of the Arachessen are trained extensively in the magic of every god. From the time we were children, we were exposed to all magics, even when our bodies protested, even when it burned us or broke us.

Obitraens—those of the continent of Obitraes, the home of vampires and the domain of Nyaxia, the heretic goddess. Obitraes consisted of three kingdoms: the House of Shadow, the House of Night, and the House of Blood. They squabbled among themselves, but had never been known to venture forth into human nations—at least, certainly not as a coordinated act.

Nyaxia, the mother of vampires, was an enemy of the White Pantheon of human gods. Two thousand years ago, when she was just a young, lesser god, she had fallen in love with and married Alarus, the God of Death. But their relationship was forbidden by the rest of the White Pantheon, ultimately resulting in Alarus’s execution. Enraged and grieving, Nyaxia had broken away from the other gods and created vampires—a society to rule all on her own. Now, the gods of the White Pantheon despised her. Acaeja was the only exception—the only god who tolerated Nyaxia and the vampire society she had created.

Ascension, not death. Never death. Arachessen didn’t believe in death, only change. Just as the loss of our eyes didn’t mean the loss of sight, the loss of a heartbeat didn’t mean the loss of life. Still, it was hard not to mourn someone who existed now only as air and earth and water, which had no room for the memories or thoughts or experiences that made a human a human.

Strange, that a kingdom of Nyaxia would be so reliant upon seers. Nyaxia did not offer her followers any magic that could be used for peering into the future—which meant that seers would need to be human, worshipping other gods who offered magic that could be used for such things. Like Acaeja.

The Arachessen did not allow its members to leave their ranks. You joined for life. Death was the only escape, and they would make sure that anyone who did escape did it through that door alone.

“I fought the Wraiths of Slaede. Do you know what those are?” I shook my head, amused by his seriousness. He leaned over the top of the wagon. “Embodiments of death itself. Vampire souls tortured and mutilated until they became nothing but shells of pain and anger. I fought a thousand of those things. A thousand.”

I felt Atrius before I saw him—I always felt him, as if ripples in the threads constantly flowed in his direction.

The Arachessen taught me that my emotions should always be a calm sea. But sometimes, those storms snuck up on me. And once the waves swallowed me, it was hard to find the surface.

That was the greatest cruelty of Pythoraseed. Warlords liked it because it made their soldiers sharper and easier to control. Soldiers liked it because it made a short, terrible life more tolerable. But in either event, it was a death knell. Withdrawal would kill you. But so would the drug itself, slowly eating you alive from the inside.

I understood it so painfully well. The desire to believe that something larger than you could save you, even after it struck you down again and again.

I didn’t want him to stop any of it. I wanted Atrius to destroy the Pythora King. I wanted him to do it slowly, painfully, relishing revenge. I wanted him to let me help. I wanted him to save his people. I wanted him to earn Nyaxia’s respect. I wanted to burn it all down with him.

Legend said that they were no natural beasts, that they had been created by Sagtra, the god of animals, to be the ultimate hunting opponent. Gods, I could believe that. The slyvik moved in fits and starts, its slender, scaled body contorting eerily around the craggy stone. Its arms—webbed—allowed it to glide, hurling itself from wall to wall, so quickly that neither vampire eyes nor my magic could fully track it. It had a long, serpentine neck and a face that seemed shaped specifically to accommodate its massive jaws.

The outstretched hands of Vitarus, the god of abundance and famine, one coaxing forth crops and the other distributing plague. Ix, the goddess of sex and fertility, placing a rosebud in the womb of a weeping woman—granting her a child. Each column was a tribute to another god, their importance in the hierarchy of the White Pantheon rising as we traveled higher. I couldn’t help but pause at Acaeja’s column, halfway up the steps—she stood upright, blindfolded, a web of threads tangling from her outstretched hands, faceless silhouettes caught within it like flies in a spider’s net. All of us at the mercy of fate—the mercy of the unknown.

There was no column for Nyaxia, of course. There would be none for a goddess shunned and exiled by the White Pantheon.

The two columns that guarded the entrance honored the leader of the White Pantheon—Atroxus, the god of the sun. Ironic, for a place so steeped in fog it likely never saw any.