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by
Jenn Lyons
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March 31 - April 16, 2021
Anyway, turns out you can top killing the emperor, freeing every demon, and destroying half Quur’s Capital City, but then … … you know how much I love happy endings.
It didn’t work. Kihrin gets no credit here. It didn’t work because Talon screwed it up, as you’ll find she’s in the habit of doing. Talon is the one who put Kihrin on that slave ship, and ultimately who we can thank for letting the Black Brotherhood get their claws into him. And while Kihrin did come back to the Capital eventually, it was four years later, with friends, and having been trained by literally the best swordsman in the whole world. Nice job, Talon.
She was as Joratese as everyone else in the room; she was nothing like anyone else in the room. Everything about her was red—her skin burnt sienna, her eyes ruby. He’d imagined meeting her so often that seeing her in person struck him as ludicrous.
A demon prince named Xaltorath had shown her image to Kihrin once, years before. Kihrin had never been able to push her memory away. She defined the meter by which he measured all beauty.
Impossible. The idea he’d travel to Jorat and run into his dream woman at the first ale house defied credulity. The Goddess of Luck favored him more literally than most, but there were limits. So this must be a trick. Bait. He suddenly felt insulted; it wasn’t even subtle bait.
Kihrin’s friend Teraeth had a free visitor’s pass to and from the Afterlife, thanks to his mother, who just happened to be Thaena, Goddess of Death.4 And Thaena often brought others back to life—himself, for example, just two days before. The idea he’d been dead when they met was possible. Unnerving, but possible.
On waking, I discovered the emperor was dead. Gadrith was dead. And someone had broken the Stone of Shackles, which freed all gaeshed slaves—but likewise freed all gaeshed demons. And I know destroying a Cornerstone like the Stone of Shackles requires the sword Urthaenriel, also known as Godslayer.”
“A dragon,” Kihrin repeated a third time. “Do you have any clue—? No, wait. Look, I applaud your ambition or greed or whatever reason you have for thinking this is a good idea. Let me assure you—this is a terrible idea.”
Do you know why parents don’t warn their children not to attack dragons? Because no parent wants to think their kids are that stupid. A dragon would annihilate me before I got close enough to hurt its feelings, let alone do any real damage to it.”
“With all respect,” Qown replied, “my approval or disapproval is irrelevant. Once Morios surfaces from underneath Lake Jorat, he’ll attack Atrine. Thousands will die. Normally, the emperor would handle the problem, or the Eight Immortals themselves, but Emperor Sandus is dead, and the gods…” He held out his hands. “The gods are busy battling demons,” Janel finished.
Kihrin wondered if those red eyes meant she was Ogenra—the name the Royal Houses gave to bastards lucky enough to show the god-touched marks of their bloodlines. For example, House D’Talus red eyes—or his own House D’Mon blue.
So many people had died. All because he’d figured out a clever way to circumvent the Stone of Shackles’ power in order to kill Gadrith. How could he have known the damn artifact was responsible for binding demons? He’d had no idea.
“Hail to thee, Lawbreaker. Hail to thee, Prince of Swords.” He whispered Xaltorath’s mocking words to himself. He’d done just what Xaltorath had wanted: freed the demons. He’d also slain the emperor. Then he’d reclaimed the sword Urthaenriel, the Ruin of Kings. And according to the Devoran Prophecies, what was in store for the person who accomplished those things? That lucky bastard would go on to destroy the Quuros Empire—and quite possibly the world.
If the count ever needed an escort, Arasgon qualified. He’d been her loyal companion from childhood. His mere presence while traveling had proved so intimidating that Janel had ordered Arasgon to stay away from camp lest he ruin her trap. But Arasgon wore no armor, carried no weapons, and wasn’t human at all.
The fireblood stood eighteen hands high, black as sable with a crimson mane and tail, what the Joratese call flame-kissed. The similarity to his cousin horse breeds ended there; red tiger stripes wrapped around his legs, and his eyes were the same ruby hue as his mistress Janel’s. He’d have made a magnificent horse, but firebloods were not horses. As firebloods delighted in reminding anyone foolish enough to call them a “horse” within range of their hooves.8
Every imperial dominion had their own stereotypes. Khorveshans were great soldiers. Kirpisari prided themselves on their magical aptitude. Yorans were barbarians. The Joratese loved horses …
“Because it’s the only time in Jorat where the words stallion, mare, and so on indicate the equipment between one’s legs. Normally, when one refers to a human as a stallion or mare, we’re discussing their gender.”
Her mouth twisted. “You’re conflating gender with sex. My sex—my body—is female, yes. But that’s not my gender. I’m a stallion. And stallion is how Joratese society defines our men. So you’re wrong; I’m most certainly not a woman.”
“Normally, when one uses mare or stallion to describe a person, they’re talking about gender. And by that definition, I’m a man. But for sex, the rules change. Because then we’re talking about aesthetic preferences, in which case”—she looked down at herself—“I’m most likely to meet the standards of someone who prefers female partners. I am in fact a female man.” She smiled. “Do you see the trap now?”
You see, everything in our world is divided into two concepts—idorrá, the power and strength possessed by those who protect others, and thudajé, the honor gained from submitting to one who is superior. We hold trials, contests, and duels to determine the difference. This fosters good leadership and good community bonds. There is no dishonor in defeat either.
Impossible. In ancient times, the god-king Khorsal had chosen us to care for his favored children—his firebloods. When those same firebloods joined humans in overthrowing Khorsal, our relationship had strengthened. Every Joratese child learns to understand our four-hoofed kindred.
“They’re not horses,” Janel insisted. “Firebloods are imperial citizens with full legal rights.” Kihrin’s eyes widened. “Has anyone told the empire?”
Jorat wasn’t a dominion he associated with rebellion.2 Joratese society rested on the idea each member in it accepted their place. This hatred for the banner’s soldiers stood out like a thunderstorm in an otherwise cloudless sky.
No matter who we are or what our background, thief or noble, priest or witch, we always want to be our story’s hero. No, that’s not right. We don’t want to be. We need to be our story’s hero.
We all imagine we must be. No one ever judges themselves a fool or a knave. I suppose if they do, they invent some plausible fiction to justify their deeds. We all see the world thus. We all interpret our every act as an epic tale’s culmination, centered on ourselves.
We live in a universe divided into two worlds, Life and Death. If I spend my waking hours here among the living, my sleep belongs to the goddess Thaena.3
I die, you see. Every night, I die.
No, Xaltorath isn’t my mother. But by her cursed race’s rules, I am her child. Her adopted child. Her claimed child.
Janel’s age matched Kihrin’s criteria perfectly. He felt quite certain that her parentage would as well, that it would turn out her father was really High General Qoran Milligreest. That made Janel the fourth “son.” Apparently, the demon-claimed child. A Devoran prophecy somewhere probably mentioned it.
“We don’t keep jails in Jorat. When someone has trespassed our laws, we hold prisoners for long enough to ensure their presence at the next tourney. Prisoners are given to tournament winners under the belief a champion’s idorrá will bring saelen back into the fold. I’ve never heard of a tournament where the number of saelen awarded mattered, however.”
Our religion was forbidden because we maintain gods are nothing more than mortals who’ve given themselves great power by exploiting magic, and thus shouldn’t be worshipped.”
Anyone can aspire to be a knight. Anyone but a ruling noble. Is it any surprise, therefore, that the knightly class is so beloved here?
There have always been people who think idorrá requires violence—that the stick is the most effective enticement to keep the herd in line. That mistaken belief is the reason we have Censure. Nobles may rule in Jorat, but they rule because they have our citizens’ trust. And when the nobility becomes a greater hazard to our people than any other danger? They are removed. Such has always been our way.
The demon-claimed child gathers the broken, witches and outlaws, rebels outspoken, to plot conquest and uprising while winter’s malice hides her chains in the snow king’s palace.”
“The claimed child waits, not dead but sleeping, dreaming of evil and souls for reaping, for when day and night at last are one, the demon king’s bars will come undone.
“That was me, you know. I’m the younger brother that was sold as a slave in Kishna-Farriga. And Relos Var did try to buy me.” “Oh,” Janel said, “so you’re that brother.” “Yeah, well, I’m not his brother at all, technically. At least, not in this life.” Janel shrugged. “I don’t think he sees the distinction.” “No, no, I suppose he doesn’t. He hates me like I’m his real brother, anyway.”
“Our emotions are rarely simple when it comes to family.”
Kihrin sighed. “A long time ago, a wizard tricked one of the Eight Immortals into participating in a ritual,” Kihrin finally said. “I say tricked, because the ritual apparently culminated with the Immortal in question being sacrificed. One assumes he didn’t volunteer for that. Anyway, something went wrong.
“The rest of the people who were involved in the ritual all became dragons, but that Immortal—I realize you call him Selanol, but that’s not his real name—became something even worse. He actually died, but what was born out of his corpse was an avatar of annihilation and evil so dangerous that the monster had to be imprisoned or he’d have destroyed the entire world. Maybe the whole universe. And so, they renamed him: Vol Karoth. I really don’t think he’s the King of Demons. He’s just as eager to destroy demons as he is to destroy everything else.”
Kihrin exhaled. He didn’t explain the rest—that even though S’arric’s body had been turned into the vessel to house a corrupted force of darkness, S’arric’s soul had eventually been freed and returned to the Afterlife. To eventually be reborn as Kihrin D’Mon.
Janel’s gaze locked with Kihrin’s. “But I have also heard that this prophesied Hellwarrior will be the one to free him, the one to usher in the end of the world.” “That’s … that’s still very much under debate. I don’t think that’s true at all either.” Kihrin said, “We’re sure it’s not just one person, anyway. Not just a single ‘Hellwarrior.’ There are four of us.”
Kihrin frowned as he glanced over at the priest. “I can see this is going to become a habit. Nine. That’s what I was about to say to Janel: the numbers don’t always match. You see, the man who devised the ritual, performed it—he became a dragon too. You’ve met him. He runs around calling himself Relos Var these days.”
“Oh yes, he is. Relos Var just chooses not to look like a dragon most of the time.” Kihrin shrugged. “Maybe that’s why he’s not insane the way the other dragons are? I honestly don’t know.”
The Marakori didn’t share the Joratese distrust of magic. Indeed, the Marakori were the reason for the Joratese distrust of magic.
“Young in years,” Janel said, “not in misery.”
“The gate system is Quur’s greatest strength,” Janel explained. “It is also our greatest weakness.3 If an enemy force gains control of a single Gatestone location, they could move an army to any point in the empire in seconds. Every titled noble in every dominion is trained in invasion protocols, mortal or demonic. This Gatestone will be presumed lost and in enemy hands. At that point, the Quuros army will open a gate—but not here. Never to this location. They’ll try to open a gate to the Gatestone nearest us. If that gate can be opened safely? Only then will an army march back here to
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She rolled her eyes. “Stop talking real horses when we’re talking politics. In Jorat, the human herds are led by stallions. Always stallions. Anyway, if an old stallion gets kicked out because he can’t do his job, who decides who replaces him? Some other herd’s leader who won’t ever be around? No, foal. It’s the herd itself what chooses its leader.”
“All objects have … energy … in them, which people call tenyé. It’s the vital essence of you, me, that tree over there. There isn’t any difference between a god’s tenyé and a sorcerer’s tenyé except in quantity—”
There is no difference in tenyé between a doodle and a masterpiece. Symbols in a book convey information, but they don’t contain extra tenyé. And magic is only possible with tenyé to fuel it.”
“We have a treaty,” Brother Qown confirmed gently. “More specifically, we have gaeshe. What we call the binding of the demons is in fact the gaeshing of the demons—all of them. The demons were given gaesh commands they must follow. For example, they are forbidden from manifesting in the physical world unless summoned. And they have to follow their summoner’s orders.”
