Ebusuku’s PoV - Outlands - Domain
The nearest streamers of light rising throughout the Domain wipe away all shadows from my scroll. A glance across the tallies reminds me of when we’d gone from keeping count in companies instead of platoons. We’d been so few that now among the dozens of companies already through training we have some larger sized platoons. Though not really amusing, it still sets me laughing, comparing where we are now to the group that escaped the maze.
Sage’s appearance at our meeting table brings my laughter to a halt at the bleakness of his expression. “Orcus enjoys leaving wastelands.”
Setting a weight in place to hold the scroll, I take in his distraught expression, the calm of the clearing not softening his pain. “After three odd years of cleaning up undead, what brings such pain?”
“I spoke to a Monarch Archon in The Exchange.”
Sage stops speaking to look at the surrounding trees, almost as if seeing them for the first time. I don’t disturb his thoughts but give him the time he needs to compose himself.
“Life is so fragile even without entities purposefully seeking its destruction. Why do beings with such a purpose exist?” Sage asks at last. “What does he gain from it?”
“I can’t answer what or why. But Orcus is just one of several Demon Lords focused on the destruction of life, either in part or as a whole, within the Abyss. Though I will grant you, he is one of the few that also have a fascination for the undead. Leaving aside what took you to The Exchange, what did this Archon say?” I ask, hoping to help him work through whatever pain currently afflicts him. “Celestial or not, I hope you weren’t speaking about Cemna there.”
“No, I was hunting for more information on the undead, and we both tried to purchase the same crystals. One thing led to another; we spoke about their respective sources. She bemoaned the predilections of Orcus and was grieving about recently adding a new name to the memorial,” explains Sage. The catch at the last gave me a clear sign of what had caused the pain lining his normally calm face.
“Memorial?”
“It’s in the Elysium Fields, the Plane is the brightest among the upper Planes I’ve visited. The energy there makes the memorial all the sadder. Every world that Orcus’ followers have destroyed civilisation on over the millennia is listed: one hundred and twenty-eight. She said millions of worlds hold life, but that it doesn’t lessen the billions lost to his cultists opening Gates?” explains Sage. A pained look peeks through his composure, and he sets aside a scroll he’d squashed in a grip that had become too tight. “There was a world whose name I’d never known, but I recognised it somehow. Written in Celestial, it spoke to my heart and I remembered. I remember so much. How could I have forgotten all of it? The peoples, trees, and plants both great and small, the wind sighing through their fronds, the smell of summer heated rains, so much lost. The darkness stole it away, drank the light from them, left the people and trees but hollow shells—those it didn’t inhabit and twist.”
“How long ago was it declared lost?”
“Millions of years according to the memorial,” breaths Sage, before he briskly speaks again. “It shows Cemna was lost over nine thousand years ago. That matches to what Analysis told Amdirlain. I still find it a wonder that Ilya’s treasure hunters knew about it at all.”
“You looked, didn’t you?”
“How could I not? But I so wish I hadn’t,” Sage cries, and tears start down his cheeks as his shoulders shudder with suppressed sobs. “I opened a Gate, and it was ash and dust. As far as I could see, the planet was devoid of life. Even its seas crusted over, they had long become decaying pits of death. I would have been in the trial’s maze all that time, yet it seems far longer since I got free.”
“Have you considered claiming your Prestige Class or taking a break from Cemna?”
“I already took it when my classes all hit ninety. My Fighter, Monk, Wizard, Priest, gained me Exalted Battle Thaumaturgist. Clearing the remnants of those first nations out got us a tier 7—I’ve no desire for evolution. I’ll take the time to mourn for those in my memories, but I can’t face letting his plans drain all life from another planet. Cemna is repairable with work, first we close all the gates then plan from there,” states Sage, his firm nod more to bolster himself than for my benefit. “We can’t bring the dead back to life, but we can stop all the remaining life from following them into ash.”
“Amdirlain’s endured much but made it clear she doesn’t want anyone to live up to her benchmark in stubborn stupidity. No competition of horrors, or arguing about who had it worse,” I say and motion for the scroll he’d crushed. “What’s that a list of?”
“Options for the next locations once Sidero is done with the inner reaches of her island,” admits Sage; though he hands over the scroll reluctantly, he still does. “What do I do?”
“Taking the time to mourn sounds like a good priority to me. We’ve got lots of hands to make light work doing the initial recon and planning,” I reassure him and gently clasp his forearm.
“Light work!” snorts Sage, struggling to find a mental balance. “Is that a play on words for the light show? Shouldn’t the fourth rematch have started by now?”
Sage’s question tempts me to laugh, but sensitive to his pain, I give him a nod instead. “It has! Livia sent a Message about how Amdirlain’s cycling Ki, Psi, and Mana while fighting. It’s causing a softening of the angry flames her Angelic Aura contains, and we’re getting a light show.”
“She’s lost the angry flames look?” asks Sage in disbelief. “I thought it was her Fallen state that caused its manifestation.”
When he’s about to go on, I signal him to wait.
“No, not lost, calmed, that’s all. Exactly what is going on is impossible to say. Without Livia pointing them out, I’m not sure I’d have noticed the changes,” I say and share the image Livia sent.
Sage stops to consider my mental display before he nods in satisfaction and changes the subject. “I’ll organise more Celestials to take care of the logistics Mirage used to handle. I’d honestly expected her to be back by now.”
“It’s only been a year and a half locally for her. They’ve secured the compound and made progress on trapping various troop routes. Did you want to contact Hook and Echo, or should I?”
He doesn’t pause in laying out the latest maps. “If they’re this late, I say we just get it sorted without them. We can fill them in when they’re back from Cemna and Letveri. Most of the assignments are for the training companies that Isa has helped.”
“Why not provide Isa the name of that new world on the memorial?” I suggest, and he halts with the last map in hand.
“Do you think she’d be interested?”
“Ilya has experience with The Exchange, and as neither directly associated with Amdirlain, they won’t draw attention that risks her Domain. As long as it doesn’t involve going underground, they seem happy to be involved.”
Sage opens his mouth, and I can tell he wants to argue, but he picks a different approach. “They went to Duskstone without argument.”
“Yeah, and we know how that turned out. I don’t know what it is, but every time Ilya’s not clashed with others has occurred under the open sky, or only within a building. I asked Isa, and all she’d say was don’t ask Ilya, being underground, it would seem is a reminder of pain for her.”
“I’ll pass the name and details; let her choose where she gets involved,” Sage says after consideration. “But this approach feels like we’re using them as a stalking horse.”
“That’s because I—not we—am but it benefits them. It’s the quickest way to level, and I’d rather her luck helping somewhere worthwhile not simply seeking trouble. Remember, even providing them with the name, it’s still their choice if they even try to get there, so you’re not forcing anyone.”
It’s the truth and enough to ease Sage’s concern. Determining the allocation plan doesn’t take long, but it’s hours before I leave Sage to his own devices. Getting him to speak about the happy memories he now has is a good use of my time.
Torm and a smug, blood-stained Sidero appear at the muster point, drawing nods of greetings from those nearby. That no one moves close doesn’t surprise me since only Torm and I among those gathered, possess immunity to Sidero’s cold chains. Yet even Torm takes a step back when a dozen stray spikes transform into claws, snapping at the surrounding air. Other strands simply flail about while more stab into the ground, vibrating as they burrow deep.
An actual grunt of pain from Sidero draws everyone’s attention, and they’re in time to catch the chains drawing tight and an explosion of breath that sounds like a gurgled scream. Teleport puts me at her side, and I scramble to grasp any chain, trying to drag it free from her. The resistance is more significant than I expected, and the meagre gap I create is enough to reveal the shroud growing spikes into flesh—while they pulse and glow. Metal pours through my fingers like water—or chilled blood—and suddenly forms a metal coffin. One Spell after another to pry it open slides off runes that glow to life from within the metal, and others add their efforts to my own.
Blood and grunts leak from shifting seams in a moment of sudden compression; with the coffin losing a third of its height, the sound of breaking bones echoes in the silence. Runes that had flared protectively burn bright red, and the coffin shrinks and changes again. Amid a pool of blood and gore sits an egg the length of a Farhad’s forearm, rocking back and forth. The glowing runes dim, and what shows is no longer metal but a crystalline egg—and the rocking doesn’t cease.
A crystal spike the size of a pinkie nail pierces through the side and, drawing back, punches out again. The third strike lets me see its nature, and the egg tooth atop the snout prompts me to kneel in the blood. An eye gleaming like polished gemstone peers along the snout that is set with faceted scales; a wiggle changes the angle of her head and she stabs again, breaking off a piece from the first hole’s edge. Changing to human form, I carefully work to pry a section loose, only to receive a nip for my troubles.
A long, drawn-out exhalation sounded through the stillness before Torm spoke, his tone almost a laugh of relief. “She’ll want to do it herself. When Sidero told me she broke past a hundred, I wasn’t expecting that sort of evolution.”
A faint hiss of Draconic comes from within the egg, and I don’t have to catch the words to understand the tone.
“I think she just told me off,” I laugh, and a sudden mental force presses against me.
“Are you my mummy?”
The cheerful voice in my mind sounds nothing like Sidero’s husky tone, replaced instead with crystalline soprano chimes. Despite the lightness of the voice, its sharpness tries to etch the surface of my mind.
“What?!”
My outburst of surprise results in laughter ringing in my mind, and a happy hissing noise sounds from inside the egg. It rocks again and the egg vanishes leaving a tiny dragon form still wrapped tight in a membrane, her loss of support sprawls her upon the blood-soaked ground. Though her torso is barely half the egg’s length, the space required by her wings, elongated tail, and neck would have made for a tight fit. The internal membrane holds her nearly in a ball, and the scales through it appear a deep red, despite the pinkness of her egg-tooth, and snout.
“Can I help?” asks Torm, squatting down beside me heedless of the blood-soaked ground.
“This is so embarrassing,” Sidero hisses in draconic, and suddenly the membrane disappears as well.
Sunlight reflects off perfectly formed pink-hued gemstone scales, each one an even hexagon, overlapping as required to ensure no skin is exposed. Across them, light refracts from scarlet hexagonal facets, each perfectly-proportioned.
Untangling her twisted wings—whose crystalline membranes fold with ease—and tail, she wobbles about on four paws, ungainly while she looks herself over. Snorting, she hisses and grumbles in Draconic freed from the shell; her words are clear, but their tone is sharp and tight.
“I’m now a Diamond Dragon Planar Variant: Scarlet Lonsdaleite. It says level one with zero experience, so seems like standard Class progression…, oh snarky Analysis, years automatically give me species experience. I got a Prestige Class called Keeper of Eternal Oaths, and for claiming it, my home Plane is now Mechanus,” Sidero says. Her mental voice touches everyone within in hundred metres and, despite its strength, she sounds drained. “Most things went up, lost my chains, and even defence went up also now it’s got a tag of fortified against it.”
Her ability doesn’t surprise me, but I can see Torm’s gaze widen. “Most Gem Dragons species I know of are naturally Psionic.”
“You look pink,” Berry observes from near the group she’d been escorting.
“Oh!” huffs Sidero, diverting my attention back to her.
“What’s wrong?”
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“I hurt all over,” grumbles Sidero and staggers off balance, trying to pick her way through the mud. “Coming down off my endorphin high or whatever, fast. But I can feel pain again, so I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
Torm moves close enough to touch her at the last physical and mental groan but still stops short. “Should I pick you up, or can you concentrate enough to shift yourself out of this mess?”
When she slumps in the blood, and her lids fall shut, it’s clear the second won’t happen, especially when her nostrils almost submerging in the blood, only draws a snort. Without a word, Torm scoops her and wipes the blood away—the sunlight off her tiny form dazzling when she’s lifted from our shadows. “I’ve been to Mechanus, I’ll take her there and hopefully it helps her recover.”
“I was planning to see Tyr soon. I might talk this change over with him now.”
“I’ve already let him know,” replies Torm.
“Ever the dutiful warrior,” I tease lightly, and Torm’s pleased smile is a simple but clear response. His fingers supporting her head, he holds her sprawled along his forearm and Sidero’s tail automatically coils around his upper arm before Torm vanishes. The energy left in his wake shows he’s stopping off on the Plane of Air.
Looking over the distracted state of the other teams, I move to cut their gossip short. “Switch patterns again on the jump back to the Domain. We’ve got new arrivals so clean up and anyone willing is welcome to help get them organised. Move out.”
After the last of them depart, Planar Shift skips me through Limbo before it lands me on the Bifrost, instead of slipping directly to Tyr’s Domain. I’ve slipped in unnoticed a bit too often of late, perhaps best to keep them from investigating how often that occurs. The solid light beneath my feet is a clear path through the cloud bank towards ásgarer. Almost hidden within the clouds’ depths I spot the tip of one of Yggdrasil’s branches—leaves, hundreds of metres long, wave on an unfelt wind within this boundary space.
Further along the rainbow expanse—just below the peak of its course—Heimdall’s gaze turns my way. Petitioners, natives, and travellers walk by each side unhindered, but I can sense his power examining each, despite his focus on me. His height matches my Solar form, and he meets my gaze with steel-grey eyes. Even if he was only human height, the power within his gaze would call out his nature.
Russet hair braided back away from his face matches the well-groomed beard that a Dwarf would declare too short. His broad features, hidden behind that short hedge, would easily pass for Mortal until you locked eyes. Then his simple attire, leathers reinforced with what seems dull steel plates, becomes not a lack of wealth, but rather a matter of choice. However, his choice of simple attire doesn’t extend to his horn or weapons. The long oxen horn instrument is slung across his back, with a mithril mouthpiece and set with silver and gems; it fairly hums with power here on the Plane’s edge. An unsheathed adamantine two-handed sword—its keen edges gleaming—floats point downwards beside him, drifting in time to his motions.
“Ebusuku, from all the noise I’ve been hearing, it seems you’ve ignored every invitation I’ve passed along.”
“Greetings Heimdall,” I say, wondering if Amdirlain would just tell him off. “I’ve been choosing to spend my time elsewhere rather than attending feasts. Perhaps one day I’ll have time to invest in the offered honours.”
Heimdall’s scowl twists his face to the point his mouth vanishes within his beard before he retorts. “Some honours can disappear if those they’re offered to show little interest in them.”
“Such goes both ways, and Amdirlain shared guest rights with those individuals worth honouring, as well as those that best continue honouring the host,” I reply. I keep my tone light while wondering if he’ll call me on my words as this was the sharpest I’ve gotten with him. Their escalating posturing over the years has more than confirmed Amdirlain’s reservations to me. “I’ve matters to discuss with Tyr, and business of my own to tend.”
“You make time for him on every visit, yet you’ve never called on óeinn. Best you take care of the message you send with your deeds.”
“He should have taken better care with the last messenger he sent to aid Amdirlain,” I say. Even having kept my tone light my choice of topics cuts, and he grinds his teeth. “I thought you were the Bifrost’s guardian, not his messenger boy, but didn’t his last messenger slip from this bridge?”
“It rejected her passage and carried her to where she deserved to go.”
“Such doesn’t happen in a moment, and a leader should know his people. Strange how one on the cusp of falling was tasked to help, yet had no one on hand to stop any misdeed before injury occurred. Odyis’ presence could have gone in so many ways, and yet every way I look at it, I can see benefits for your All-father Oathbreaker.”
“Best you get along. With your sharp tongue, I’ll be glad when I don’t see you again,” Heimdall growls. The tone is so sharp that even the Petitioners caught up in the distant, dreamy state of Souls between places react with a start.
The smile that I give him doesn’t calm his mood. “Oh, if Tyr says I’m welcome, you’ll see me whenever I wish. If you don’t like it when I make observations, tend to your watch and don’t play messenger, Heimdall. I don’t believe that’s anything your worshippers revere you for, or is it? Does your Mantle support you when you go outside your role?”
“If all you’re here for is to see Tyr I’d step quicker then. Given all the packing, his servants are about, who knows how much longer he’ll be present,” replies Heimdall his surly tone not enough to cause a further disturbance.
He might mean the words as a warning, but I find them relaxing. Yet I still don’t hesitate in moving past.
The growing tension between the Human Pantheons stinks of plots on all sides not just from the Greeks. Now I know more, the alliance they so quickly offered Amdirlain makes me wonder what óeinn saw to make her a pawn. Too much I’ve learnt since Mars’ warning makes me feel that Tyr is the odd one out among the Norse, instead of an example of his kin. Even their Celestials tell tales that paint much of the Pantheon in an unflattering light to me. The way they agree to deals while always planning a way to break them—they call it cunning but it’s betrayal all the same. I’ve known Demons that would keep their word better than most of the Norse Gods.
Once she’s healed, I’ll pass Amdirlain all the tales I’ve collected and verified. If she knew half of them, I’m sure she’d do more than just treat them in a reserved fashion, something like disgust with the Pantheon’s acknowledgement of her. Though I can see the factors in her choice, the Elven Summer court has been truer to her. If only the near-immediate presence of the Norse hadn’t encouraged them to keep their distance.
From where Heimdall stands, the Bifrost descends to a pier at the eternal waterfall’s edge, a strange sight, but far more natural compared to Mechanus’ floating cogs. The layout of the Norse Pantheon’s Domains is a quilt of mismatched parts formed beneath Yggdrasil’s canopy. Its trunk is far distant, and reaches even further overhead until the upper branches extend beyond sight. Despite its size, which should cast nearly everything ahead into shadow, the intermingled Domains remain lit by sunlight.
A short distance past Heimdall’s position a shift in the wind carries skalds’ chants and raised voices of Valhalla’s mead halls caught up their unrestrained revelry. The long halls that host the warriors of old are built from golden oak, lacquered so they glow in the sunlight. The barracks for those who’ll serve if óeinn calls upon them when Ragnarok looks the Pantheon in the eye. Simpler halls and buildings provide quarters for those who lived quieter lives. With the Norse culture having a warrior focus, it’s understandable who holds the highest regard in ásgarer. Yet they’ve decorated even simpler halls with the complex knots and patterns that record a life’s tales.
Training yards and forges, all filled with Celestials and Petitioners alike, are dotted between the outer piers and the taller inner fortifications that encircle the tree. Apparently, all are free to come and go, and if there is a pattern it’s been so far impossible to discern. I’ve even seen a Valkyrie testing their skills against those who withered with age in life and not taking offense at a lesser opponent, wanting a turn against them.
With my first footstep upon the pier, I feel the restriction against flying and teleportation lift away, and my Teleport takes me to the gates of Tyr’s Halls. The outer gates are clean white stone carved with the tale of Fenris and the chain. With his Hall’s position high upon a hill, it’s a constant reminder of one of the Pantheon’s traitorous deeds clearly on display to those who come to call.
The nearest guard tilts her head back to look me in the eye. Some might take her curled lip as a threat but it’s the closest thing a Vargr Drangijaz has to a smile. “That was swift Ebusuku, the messenger only left recently. You’ll have folks wondering at your travel time.”
“If they’ve gone to the Domain, I left there some time ago. Heimdall implied that Tyr’s servants are packing.”
The moment I extend my hand, she eagerly clasps my forearm as if I’ve honoured her, something I still find strange.
“More gathering items previously loaned to other Domains, we’ve been told we’ll shift overnight if Lord Tyr’s sources hold true. Shall I escort you through, or let you find your own way?”
“If it’s not a disruption I’ll just head through. Would he be in his study or tending to a Hearing?”
Her gaze doesn’t even flicker, but she tilts her head as if listening to a distant voice before she speaks again. “He’s in his study with a guest, but Lord Tyr said to come straight through.”
At her words, the gates glide smoothly open, giving me ample space even if I unfurled my wings but knowing the corridors I’ll transverse I shift to Human form. Heimdall’s phrase was a massive exaggeration, as nothing has been packed away, but I can see many a spot where things are back in place. From weapon and armour racks that had previously stood empty now being occupied, and even gaps in the library were now filled. The principal work that appeared to be in progress was the servants readying for a feast.
As I take a passage alongside the kitchen towards the stairs closest to his study, I hear roasting spits groaning under whole oxen and boars. Though I don’t understand even a once-Mortal’s fascination for food, I know enough. And many a Petitioner at home would welcome the sweet smell of the apple blossom mead marinade and the spices they’re using in their cooking.
A servant leaving Tyr’s study with an empty tray quickly tucks it beneath his arm and holds the door open with a smile. Far different to most Norse I’ve seen, the man could almost pass for pure-Egyptian. The slight curl in his hair, that would for an Egyptian be perfectly straight, is the only hint of non-Egyptian heritage. From his straight nose, fine features, and thin mouth, he’s far different from the blocky featured Norse.
His appearance prompts consideration of whether Tyr has finally poached beyond national boundaries. When he ushers me through, the guest within steals all such thoughts away. His outward appearance matches so many of the Slavic Celestials I’ve met, pale skin, blue eyes, and a clean-shaven square chin. His modest robes, long white hair, and bladed nose are simply a facade over the top of platinum scales.
His focus causes me to drop my gaze, and it lands on a padded seat, hosting a farmer’s woven broad-brimmed hat. A hat playing host to seven golden canaries tweeting softly at each other and apparently squabbling over the seeds poured across the hat’s rim. If any of them transformed back to their Gold Dragon form, we’d be picking up pieces of stonework in Limbo if not even further afield.
Putting a hand back to catch the closing door’s handle, I simply incline my head further. “Tyr, had I known you were hosting Lord Bahamut, I would have come another time.”
Bahamut fixes me with a crushing look that bores into my bones before he huffs impatiently. “Oh sit down, Ebusuku. I’ve no intention of eating you. You’re much changed from the last time you crossed paths with my priesthood.”
Perhaps it was the example of Amdirlain’s own insanity, but I let the handle slip away and almost bounce from my skin when it clicks shut a moment later. Bahamut motions to the seat along the table from him, where he and Tyr have tankards of mead and a tray of sweetmeats laid out. The gesture was made with confidence almost as if the study was his own, and when I hesitated, all the canaries ceased their noise and fixed their gazes upon me. A flicker of motion has them perched upon the back of the seat that sat between Bahamut’s and the one he’d directed me to use.
“Exactly how had you crossed Lord Bahamut’s priesthood Ebusuku?” asks Tyr. His voice was tight with suppressed amusement, and he clasped the table’s edge like he was trying not to slap his knee with laughter.
Sitting down carefully I didn’t take my gaze from the songbirds, and likewise found the closest perched upon the empty chair’s back hadn’t shifted his gaze from me. Unsurprisingly, given the intensity of his focus, his scales in miniature match my recollections.
“When I was young and not yet wise enough to avoid annoying Dragons, I was summoned to a world ruled by various Dragon castes. The group my Summoner served had him set me to stealing naming day gifts intended for various wyrmlings about to come of age. At the last caravan I raided, I believe the Gold closest to me transformed and bite me in half. After that, I tried to have minimal involvement with Dragons and their disputes.”
Bahamut’s eyebrows twitched upwards at the last and he spoke before I could continue. “Then why do you smell of Diamond hatchling and also Kyton blood?”
“Has Tyr spoken of Sidero?”
“The Kyton with the Soul of Orhêthurin’s friend placed inside?” asks Bahamut.
“She achieved evolution and her chains crushed her. When the process was over a Diamond egg was left behind and it soon hatched. The transformation changed her into a variation of a Dragon, Red Diamond, with a Plane home of Mechanus. After hatching she passed out, Torm has taken her to Mechanus in the hopes it would help her recovery.”
“He said you had news to speak off, but nothing so dramatic,” Tyr murmurs, looking thoughtful as he plucks a sweet from the tray.
“Torm is reserved—perhaps too much so—until something gives him reason to bite,” I admit.
“I’d like to meet this hatchling once she’s recovered, even if she isn’t one of those who looks to me,” states Bahamut, with his attention fixed on me. Though the pressure is less, I still feel crushed into the seat.
“Just speak my name when she is recovered and gives permission for me to visit her.”
“I hope you won’t crush her like you’re doing me right now.”
I almost bite my tongue when I realise what slipped out, but Bahamut’s pressure doesn’t increase again, rather it eases off.
“You are in the service to Orhêthurin, and I’ve heard you’re protective of her. For her sake, I’ll let past offences lay by the side since you’ve undertaken the Titan’s trial.”
With those words, the pressure disappears completely and I risk a question. “Might I ask how you know her?”
“Why would I not know her? I met her before this realm existed. Orhêthurin sang the first of my followers within this realm into existence while I listened in wonder and was captivated by her dance. The Anar and Lóm? believe they were the first species, but the Dragons were first. It’s simply there was just no world for them to live upon, and Dragons need space, so the Titan placed them in stasis.”
“Amdirlain has no memory of that as far as she’s told me,” I say, hoping it will prompt him to share information that will help her.
“Then perhaps she’ll remember in time—who can say for sure what will hold true for her state. I’ve heard too many have already led her astray. Has she regained any memories?”
A sharp nod is all the response he needs before he continues.
“Then perhaps she’ll regain them all over time,” offered Bahamut, apparently unbothered by the prospect. A little twitch of his fingers has the canaries who’d still been eyeing me swoop back to the hat, and resume squabbling over the seeds. “Hopefully when she does, she’ll not regain her loathing of power, she needs to keep in mind its the being who wields that determines if it services good or ill.”
“I’d been told the most powerful singers were their King and Queen,” I say, trying to restrain myself when Tyr fills a tankard and pushes it my way, despite the company at the table.
“That was an agreement they reached in their early years for work that needed a leader beyond a conductor. Orhêthurin’s name was even put forward, but she turned it down, not once but many times. Eventually, they stopped putting her up for consideration and her tendency to work alone eventually had them forget her strength until she made it clear.”
A refusal of power certainly seems like it’s something that runs true. “Was that when she handed herself over for the trial and the branding?”
“That sentence didn’t even exist until the King’s lackey proposed it for her offence against his Majesty. No, it was when she slew those things to the last infant, along with the Anar King, and his Chorus all on the same day. It’s a messy tale and I only know part of it. Hopefully one day she remembers the truth of it and considers it in as kind a light as possible,” replies Bahamut, and signals for quiet. “Let’s get back to the purpose of my visit. Now if you use the edge of my Domain as a guide there will be no gap to put the Erakk? Petitioners at risk. From the foothills I spoke about before Ebusuku arrived, all the way across the plains to that trio of Deltas is unclaimed. I’ve already advised those whose Domains sit close that a newcomer might be arriving.”
“Lord Bahamut has been hosting them for you. Might I ask how you two met?” I ask, looking between the oldest heavenly being and the human god, my brain objecting at the comparison.
Bahamut gives a snort and the canaries trill with amusement, as if they’ve caught my thoughts. “I’ve known Tyr since his concept of Justice drew a young Gold’s attention. I wanted to know more about the Power she worshipped and arranged a meeting. It took this situation for him to listen to my centuries-old recommendation of moving his Home Plane. With the need to keep this under wraps and the more orderly mindset of the Erakk?, it was far better for them to be brought to the Seven Heavens.”