Flight of the Godkin Griffin

Flight of the Godkin Griffin: Epilogue

Tue, 09 Jun 2009 11:59:53 GMT

Not a short climb, Lucien observes.

No, I agree as I ascend on foot, one arm around the sling where my baby is sleeping against my ribs. I find the weight comforting but very different from the rocks I've been practicing with. No matter how carefully you weigh a baby, no stone will ever give you the same impression... the vulnerability, the preciousness. And the wiggle: babies wiggle a lot more than you imagine.

We've left my guards behind... but we are well past the point where it's safe to go without wings. Besides, I am never without protection, and by now everyone knows it. It's been an interesting, very grueling few months. I have occasionally tried to imagine undertaking this... adventure... without the Godson's help; it would have been disaster. Even with his help it's been a struggle. I've fought easier uphill battles than the one I'm embroiled in now.

So I have been busy. It's only now, at summer's end, that I've been able to get away from the seat of the Closest Kin to come here, as I have been longing to since I returned from Shraeven.

We're almost there, I tell him, and feel his attention grow more focused. I hike up the last crumbled feet of the trail and then we are standing on top of the world.

The Lip of the Sun, I say to him.

Ah...!

I am on a summit of tawny rock so far above the sea that the sky looks closer than the earth, almost touchable. The drop is sheer, straight down to amber rocks slicing through the foam-edged waves, an eye-watering turquoise. Their boom is distant, as is the scent of salt and summer. Up here you mostly smell the sky... feel a wind too high to gather earthbound smells.

This is where I grew up... this is where I had to come. Not just for myself, but to bring these two newest important people in my life. So I don't spoil the moment with explication. Together the Godson and I overlook the shimmering waters while I hold the sleeper to my chest, knowing that the taste of the air and the smell of it and the heat will reach the baby just as powerfully—perhaps more so—than the sight.

I remember not long ago I was contemplating my retirement in a room at Fort Endgame... wondering about godhead and grace. I wanted to wander the earth, to unravel the mysteries. When the Godson called me back to duty, I thought Shraeven was a distraction from that goal. But instead, Shraeven gave me the answer, sheathed in blood and suffering so that I would be sure to feel it piercing me, bright as a sword:

We are each of us vibrating between the eternal and the moment. To be mortal is to never be comfortable, never be able to settle on one or the other... and so we need reminders to pull us in each direction. Like gods and children.

I cup the baby's body against my breast and feel the brush of Lucien's ghostly hand. I spread my wings, feeling the heat in every feather, and the sun sparkles on the waves and in my eyes.

And then I step off the edge of the world and soar into the summer sky.

The End

[OOC]

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 13:18:05 GMT

Monday the story will conclude with the epilogue. Hang on just a little longer!

—MCAH

Angharad Triumphant

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 13:14:21 GMT

"Nadeir," Colblain says. "Where we started this whole gods-forsaken exercise."

"More like gods-becluttered," Gavan says. "Blood and life, it's good to see an honest fort!"

I laugh. "We'll be able to find you proper civilian clothes in the warehouse, if Supply will deign to honor my request."

"Better have the Godson set something on fire," Gavan says darkly. "That's the only thing that'll loosen that tightfist's fingers."

My entourage feels so thin now: Oweir left us soon after the Neshanti, Donal, Negrat, Ragna, Silfie... all gone. It's just the three of us—four, counting my divine patron. I am feeling distinctly abandoned when a shadow ripples over the ground and the corvid messenger dives, back-winging to land on Honeydipped's crupper. I twist around to look at him, heart lifting.

"Decided to come along? What about your mate?"

The messenger gives an unconcerned croak and leans forward to offer the flower in his beak. I turn it in my fingers: pale as honey, one of the mountain valley's blooms.

"Did he bring that all the way from Shraeven?" Gavan says.

"Maybe that's the message," I say. At his quizzical glance, I smile and say, "Shraeven's not that far."

I put my heels to Honeydipped's sides. All around me, the Kingdom's late spring spreads, bright spears of grass, brighter sky. Barely a season, there and back... and that by foot. How much closer for those who fly? Shraeven and its memories will never be far.

"Let's go," I say. "There's work to be done."

"Aye, mistress!"

Farewell the Second

Sat, 06 Jun 2009 23:32:17 GMT

I'm expecting... something when we cross over. Visions of empire and war. Trumpets sounding a tantara. The Godson bursting into flame above my head like a symbol of my divine right to rule.

But instead there is nothing... nothing external. Just a feeling, a welter striving behind my solar plexus. Relief, release, regret. Joy and fear and joy.

I don't cry, and nothing feels different... except everything has changed.

There is work to be done.

#

We descend out of the mountains then, down to the Sunkin's Way, and once we reach the road the men strike up a marching song. We're home, we are the pride of the Kingdom, the sun shines on our shoulders. The banners snap in a familiar wind: no more the perfume of Shraeven's foreign flowers, but the grassy herbal tang of the shrubby lands flush to the rocky slopes.

At night Donal spars with me, but I score more touches on him than wonted. I have come home... he is about to leave. His heart is already distant. On the eve of his departure he gains his focus again, enough that we put on a good fight for our watchers. He scores the last point, and I put my hand on his sword to hold it in place.

"Eat supper with me," I say.

"Gladly."

So again, I find myself sitting at a meal before parting. It is a genial time spent reminiscing, completely in keeping with his character, just as Ragna's silence had been of her. Over the remnants of a fruit tart I try to imagine Donal suggesting a friendly nap and smile.

"Something funny?" he asks.

I shake my head, looking down at my plate. I don't know how I'd explain. They're so different, and yet the same in the only way that matters.

"You'll see her again," he says, pouring himself another cup. When I glance up at him, he says, "Ragna. You've been subdued since she left."

I nod. "I loved her."

"Love her," he says. "The love remains, even if the people never come back."

I look up at him. He smiles back at me.

"You're a long sight from the days you were a provincial making trouble for my captains," I say.

He smiles, but there is a weight in his eyes that I recognize, one that keeps him from laughing. "I enjoyed serving under you, Angharad. I'm glad I had the opportunity."

Is that it? I'm... disappointed. As I see him out, I wonder at my melancholy... but I have no answers, none I dare look at too closely. Even the Godson is silent on the topic. I lie on my stomach on my bunk and stare at the egg until I fall asleep.

The following day our march brings Nadeir into sight and with it the Rind, the major road circumscribing the Kingdom's original borders. This is the fastest route to Aneshet and we stop when we reach it. There is some minor ceremony as Donal's unit detaches from our company, one Nedwin oversees as the ranking officer on the march. Donal accepts Nedwin's formal thanks for the courage and hard work of his conscripts; all I can see is his hard back and strong neck, spine straight as a plumb line.

Then his men turn to face me and come to attention. He strides to the center of their formation and then walks to Honeydipped's flank. And there before the gods and everybody he takes my hand and kisses it.

"Aneshet bids the Godkindred Kingdom to look for him in the spring." The look in his eyes makes the fur on the back of my neck stand on end... an electric tingle that makes me aware of every eye on us. "We will come to her then."

"She will await your arrival," I answer.

Holding my eyes, he whispers over my knuckles, "I'll be back for you, Angharad."

He lets my hand drop and turns away... leads his men down the Rind without a backward glance. As their boots thump on the stone, I hear them begin a Neshanti song.

My fingers still feel his breath.

If he can make good on that promise... the Godson says, musing. A man who could make a kingdom out of a province in a year would be a magnificent emperor.

No more empire, I say, but sitting astride Honeydipped I feel flushed and alive.

I'll be waiting, Donal.

Farewell the First

Fri, 05 Jun 2009 13:39:49 GMT

The border is unmarked but we both know it. Ragna reins in her mount and Honeydipped comes to a halt alongside and together we gaze at gray and yellow stone beneath a bright sun.

"Shall we stop for noonmeal?" I say.

Ragna nods and we separate to return to our respective countrymen and give the order: we'll stop for an hour or so. My men pitch my tent and set up the basics in it; a meal is served, slices of that good hard cheese from Black Vines on crisp crackers baked with sesame seeds, spiced meat rolled into cabbage leaves. We drink pale wine together and it is a quiet meal... I expect no less.

Ragna glances at the egg, which is considered one of the "basics" that goes into my tent whenever we stop. I've put the baby's bed blossom in the box with it, and unsurprisingly (to me, anyway) it hasn't wilted yet.

"When do you think?" she asks.

"I don't know," I admit. "But it's gotten hard. Soon, I am hoping."

She smiles. "You will have to send me a portrait."

I nod. And find I have no words for the end of this journey. The enigmatic hillswoman I found on the border, who became my esquire... my translator... my friend and my confidant. And now my peer in an arena I never expected to enter. What do I say? What is there to say?

Ragna squints, lifting her head. "An hour?"

I nod.

Her whiskers lift a little. "A nap?"

"If you wish?" I say, perplexed, for I hadn't thought her tired.

But then we lie together on my bunk and she tucks herself against my chest and I understand. I rest my beak above her head and my arm over her shoulders. She lifts her chin just enough to settle the side of her face against the inside of my other arm... and we relive the many nights we have spent just so. Indulging in the "merely" asexual embrace that she taught me means so much. Because "I love you" comes in more forms than the ways I'd assumed, and if I leave Shraeven with one, quiet, personal revelation... it's that.

At the end of the hour she rises, thick fur shimmering. Stretches and looks down at me.

"I'll have your whisker," I say.

"I'll have your feather," she says. She looks at me a little longer with those sea-green eyes, so uncanny. Then she says, soft, "Thank you, Angharad."

And then she's gone.

By the time my tent is packed the Queen of Shraeven, her heralds, guards and servants are already too far down the road to be seen by normal eyes, and mine are having trouble of their own. I draw in a deep breath and turn away.

Shall we step over the border together?

I smile, my eyes leaking. I'm not sure we could do it any other way.

Passing the Mantle

Thu, 04 Jun 2009 12:35:20 GMT

The first Shraevenaese I ever met, the folk of the mountain plateaus, come down to greet us as we ride past. It is here that the last of our taggers-on leave us for home... the fighting folk that Negrat brought to the capital, such a very long way. Ragna holds especial interest for the headmen and their shamans, who whisk her away for curiosity, not to air their concerns (for truly, what do such self-sufficient men and women need?). But I'm the one the children follow... the stranger with wings. I remember how to say hello to them—emfa! emfa!—and they laugh and want to see me fly.

I return to camp festooned with flowers, pale as honey and blue as a summer sea. I'm still wearing them, inhaling their perfume, when Negrat settles down beside me that evening.

"Are you staying, then?" I ask.

"Here?" He smiles. "It would be a fitting end to my adventure... if this was a story. But life does not end anything neatly, you will have perceived."

"Oh yes," I say, chuckling. "I have so perceived."

"I will stay home for a while... long enough to badger my successor," Negrat says. "And then I will make my way back to the capital."

"To badger my successor," I say, nodding. "Life might not have neat endings, but patterns it does very well."

He laughs and pats my knee. "Ah! I have trained you well, Godkin woman! You will make your people crazy with confusion, just as you must. We must all start from confusion, to learn anything at all."

"From honest confusion, anyway," I say, trying for a sage tone. "For if you deny your confusion, you can never repair your ignorance."

Negrat claps his hands, delighted. "I have taught you all that I know! I am content."

I grin and together we look at the stars as they become visible: swiftly to my sharp eyesight... and perhaps even more swiftly to his less-than-normal gaze.

I am not at all surprised that after he has gone, I find a baby's bed blossom where his tail was so lately warming the stone. I wonder where he found it, but only for a moment. He has his ways... so will I.

Even an old griffin can learn new tricks.

Memorial

Wed, 03 Jun 2009 19:08:29 GMT

It is much as I remember it, the green chain of mountain valleys connecting Shraeven to the Kingdom... except that the deepening of spring has brought forth different flowers and the people no longer curse the names of the pards under their breath. Riding here I am assailed by a deep contentment, knowing that I changed their lives for the better. I spent bitter coin to do it, but for now there is peace and safety here because of my decisions.

It is no surprise then, that in the mountains I am as warmly received as Ragna. In fact, a facsimile of the document that declared us allies against the pards has been carved in stone and set on a pedestal in the town halfway between Shraevensgate and the border. The original, the headman says, will travel from town to town on an annual rotation. He glances at his new queen to see if she objects to their veneration of a symbol linking them to their former oppressors, but Ragna only smiles. After all, that Godkindred oppressor rescued her in the same battle that destroyed the pard nation.

We travel toward the beginning of our relationships, Ragna and Donal and Negrat and I. It is like moving through time. From the corners of my eyes I glimpse myself talking to Colblain about duty and service... shouting my outrage at Magwen, riding alongside Silfie, Silfie with the sun in her cinnamon curls...

So many memories. I begin to feel the weight of them. Not just Shraeven, but the campaigns before. Glendallia, where there is a fountain in my likeness: hard conquerer, sword weeping water. Ulnith, where I almost died covering the retreat in the battle of Kendrick Caves. Even the slopes of Firerake, where I fought my first battle as a fourteen-year-old foot-soldier under Captain Trerian... ah, that was ages ago, it feels like.

How many more fights will I see, dismantling the empire?

A lot fewer than you did as a Mistress-commander, the Godson says. You will not have the luxury of killing your own enemies personally. Not again.

We'll see about that.

When we reach the village where I first heard rumor of the pard nation, I excuse myself from my advisors, my guards and my foreign allies in order to make a pilgrimage. I had not overflown the site I'd decided on when we first entered the mountains, but I remembered its location as only a flier can... even though I choose to walk the trail on foot, my boots digging into moist soil and scrabbling on rocks.

Once I reach the quiet mountain top with its commanding overlook of the valleys, I set out a circle of stones, pound a plank into the soil and take out the paint.

When I finish, I sit back, hands on my knees.

I suppose I should have known I would be followed. What surprises me is that Ragna lost all her guards on the way up. She crouches alongside the wood, tracing the words as she reads them. Then she glances at me. "You remember him."

"Of course I do," I say. "He led us to the pards... and he died for it. What was he, nineteen? Twenty?"

"Seventeen, mayhap," Ragna says. "The shepherd boy Murdinal. You spelled his name wrong." At my glance, she smiles, whiskers barely moving, and says, "I will have a stone marker erected. For him and all the others who died during the battle."

"Did I choose a good site?" I ask.

She rises, brushing off her knees. Glances around. "There is enough room here for a proper memorial. And the way is hard enough to focus the mind and easy enough that people will make the trip. Yes, I think it's good. Thank you for thinking of it."

"I'm sure you would have, too," I say.

"Perhaps," Ragna says. "Perhaps not. We pards lack a person's proper sense of history."

I stand up too. And snort. She looks at me and then smiles properly, accepting my opinion of her self-deprecation.

"Come," I say. "Let's go down together, Shraeven and the Godkindred Kingdom."

As we head for the path, she asks, "Will you still call it that when you get back? The Godkindred Kingdom?"

"I'd better," I say, "if I change the name, the Godson will set me on fire."

War-Griffin's Welcome

Wed, 27 May 2009 13:19:07 GMT

The people of the plains of Shraeven know me as a face in a parade, a religious curiosity or a perturbation in their routine.

The people of the mountains of Shraeven know me as the woman who spilled her own blood to make them safe. So it doesn't entirely surprise me that when we ride up the road toward the first of the mountain's dimpled valleys, the people have not just formed a crowd to await our arrival... but arranged a giant festival. Colorful tents are pitched like a patchwork skirt around the town's perimeter and even from a distance we can hear the singing chatter of tambourines.

"Looks like a party," Gavan says, ears straining forward to catch the sound of fiddle reels. Nedwin has released my Godkindred captains from their duties (Donal, of course, is still in personal command of his Neshanti conscripts), so they've taken to riding alongside me.

The mountains must elicit inevitable memories for Oweir, who looks to be brooding... but his expression lightens when dozens of belled dancers stream toward us, parting just before the point of our formation to tumble and caper, their crazily-dyed skirts and scarves flashing in the high white sunlight. Behind them skip scores of children with wicker baskets of the scarlet flowers of the valley, distributing them randomly to soldiers, heralds, anyone they can reach, until the spicy-sweetness of their perfume is interwoven through the ranks like trails of incense.

By the time we reach the tents with their aromas of roasting sausages and fresh beer, it's only the rigid discipline of the army that keeps the whole traveling party from dissolving.

I am waiting for Nedwin when he rides toward me.

"Is this safe?" he asks.

"These people are allies," I say. "We fought with them."

He studies my eyes, then nods and heads back at a quick canter. No doubt the townsfolk will soon be much richer for our coin. I smile up into the sky and stretch my pinions.

The Queen's Counsel

Tue, 26 May 2009 11:22:02 GMT

Not long now, the Godson observes as we soak in the glorious vista.

No, I agree.

Ready for it?

I smile a little, twitching an ear back. I suspect it's one of those things you can't be ready for until you do it.

I certainly wasn't.

Quietly, I say, I'm glad you'll be there to advise me.

Just as quietly he answers, I'm glad you agreed to take me along.

My ear-flick has dislodged an ice-blue flower petal. It tumbles away on the wind, a bright mote of color against the distant green.

#

When I step onto the springy grass at the base of the tower I am surprised to find Gavan and Colblain awaiting me, both hiding their anxiety in their individual ways: Gavan by trying not to fidget and Colblain by scowling. I'm surprised to find it endearing. I suppose familiarity has its charms.

"Thank the gods," Gavan says. "We were almost afraid you wouldn't bother to walk down the stairs... and then we'd be chasing you across the field like boys after a loose kite."

I grin. "Lucky for you I felt like relieving ancient memories, then."

Colblain eyes the stairs. "As I recall, you don't have a memory of walking back down those stairs."

"Closure, then," I say. "Making the trip I should have made then. So, what brings you here, chasing me?"

"Donal's leaving at the border," Gavan says. "And we know Oweir isn't coming with us. We thought... it was time to tell you what we wanted to do."

"Ah?" I lift a brow.

"You can't leave us without a formal Master-Commander long," Colblain says. "If you don't name your replacement soon there will be... discontent. Talk of favoritism. It would make Master-General Nedwin's job harder."

"True," I say, because it's been much on my mind.

"We'd like to follow you," Gavan says. "I mean, if you'll have us. We've been with you so long we're sort of used to you, you know?"

I start laughing. "Oh, is that it? You're used to me? Like an old, cantankerous cow. Or a nagging wife."

"I didn't mean it like that," Gavan mutters.

I can hardly blame them for expressing the very sentiment I was harboring on seeing them. "I'll be glad to have you both as advisors. And yes, I had been concerned about all of you reporting directly to me in the interim... even on a short march like this." I cock my head. "But tell me... how'd you know about Oweir?"

"Oh, gods," Gavan says. "You get enough beer in Oweir and he'll cry you a sea. He's upset about leaving you off-balance." At my expression, he finishes, "Oh, only around friends, Mistress. He wasn't in the habit of babbling secrets to strangers."

I shake my head. "Well. You're both certain, then?"

Gavan nods. I look at Colblain, who is silent a moment. Then he says, "You knew I had reported you for treason. You had me in custody. Even so, you sought my counsel in a legal matter." He meets my eyes forthrightly; I think that while Gavan will give me support, Colblain will be the one warning me when I'm about to make an ass of myself. "That tells me everything I need to know about you, Your Grace."

I nod. "All right, then. I'm glad to have you both. Get me your best picks for your successors and we'll see if we can solve Nedwin's impending discipline problem for him, eh?"

"Yes, ma'am," they say smartly, and I wonder how long it will take for them to lose the habit of responding like military men. Perhaps never. Perhaps that will become part of their legend: Queen Angharad I's advisors, former army captains whose fortunes soared on the wings of their commander's unexpected promotion.

They have promise, the Godson says. But you're going to need people familiar with the machinations of the court I left behind.

Besides you?

Besides me, he says. At my mental grimace, he says, We can ford that river when we reach it.

"She's talking with him, isn't she," Colblain murmurs.

"Think so," Gavan whispers back. "She always gets that long-suffering look."

I laugh. "All right, enough. Let's get back before they send someone for us."

"Yes, ma'am!"

Contemplation at Shraevensgate

Mon, 25 May 2009 14:09:28 GMT

The route that took us two weeks as a company takes almost three traveling with so many more people... but soon enough the rich farmland leading to Shraevensgate surrounds us and we are marching up the slow incline to the town built into the mountain's sloped sides. As we pass beneath the arch holding the mayorial estate over the road, we find the inevitable crowd waiting behind mayor Miltun and his prime and secondary wives. Ragna's heralds sound their trumpets and the banners snap in the breeze, and hundreds of boots thump smartly against the road as we wind our way under countless baskets of upended flower petals, many of these the sweet mountain flowers I first noticed on our initial journey into the province.

As I follow in Ragna's wake I wonder if the town will remain Shraevensgate or if they'll rename it... the Godkindredgate certainly has an awkward sound.

Later, after installing us in our guest apartments, Miltun spares a moment to meet with me.

"So," he says, studying my gods-scribbled-on body with his world-painted eyes, "You have had an adventure, haven't you."

"You could say that," I say.

"And it appears I was right," he says. "About you and the Stars."

"Changing everything? Prophecies of the end-times? World-changing?" I smile without humor. "You wanted no Star-chosen "messiah" in your town, as I recall. Has the messiah delivered the end of all things?"

"Things certainly have changed," he says.

"One thing hasn't," I say. "Your queen still wants a list of your town's needs."

He barks a laugh. "And so life does continue, after the end of all things."

"This isn't Shraeven's end, but a beginning," I say. Disgruntled, I point at my cinnamon-sparkle fur, "I would think, anyway, or what the hells was this all for?"

#

This is the town where things started becoming complicated... where I executed the brother of Silfie's murdered husband, where the Stars flung a rock at me and began the war of gods in my head. Where I learned just how tied the gods were to Shraeven's various "nobles," chosen for their ability to converse with those gods. Where I saw my first of Shraeven's multiple and complex marriage arrangements. If I had to choose a place from which there was no returning, Shraevensgate is high on the list.

It is no surprise then, that I feel compelled to return to the tower. Except this time, I fly instead of climb, and when I perch there beside the sweet-burning incense I do not fear falling from this height. Today the air is not barred to me; my wings are not injured. It's day, not night.

The view is exquisite. I feel as if I can see all the way to the capital... to the distant glimmer of the Sea.

The Legend of Who We Were

Sat, 23 May 2009 12:27:42 GMT

The following day we resume our journey, heading down the Royal Tribute to Shraevensgate. I suppose I look distracted, riding, because that evening as we're making camp Donal appears at my side.

"A spar?" he asks, casual.

I am standing outside, waiting for my tent to be erected. "You can't be serious."

"I assure you," he says. "I'm very much serious." At my askance look, he says, "Shall I swear by the yellow eggs of the blue-headed bull?"

"Not if you really mean it," I say. I study his face. "You do really mean it. Why?"

"A duel made you queen of the Godkindred," he says. "One that you would have lost had your opponent not been susceptible to spiritual attack."

"I'm not planning on fighting any more duels," I say.

"Of course you're not," he says.

This time I scowl at him. "I mean that. Queens don't duel. They engage champions to duel for them."

"Perhaps," he says. "But queens can be the target of assassination attempts. Angharad—you're an army officer. No matter what you become afterwards, that history will remain part of your legend. You understand?"

And that simply, I do.

"All right," I say. "But don't make me look too bad."

"Not at first," he agrees with a glint in his eye.

So, we spar that night, and we are observed by some and those some carry the story to the many who didn't see it, so that the following night there are more or different faces. My joints protest the abuse, but my spirit refuses their complaints. Donal is right: I may be getting old and I may no longer be as quick as I used to be, but this is part of who I am... and as long as I am queen, this is part of who I'll be.

Queen Angharad Godkin I, former army officer and winner of the pivotal duel of our religion's history, should always know her way around a sword... and be able to prove it.

#

The bridge we built outside Black Vines is still standing: that's no surprise. It's the ferryman's shack that inspires my peal of laughter.

"Gods!" Gavan exclaims. "You'd think they would have put that much effort into the bridge!"

"Oh no," I say, amused. "The new tollman must be housed in comfort."

Ragna huffs, ears flipping back. There's no question of which project she would have prioritized.

"They'll fortify the bridge, I hope," Oweir says.

"We'll fortify the bridge," Ragna says, and rides after her heralds with their snapping banners and triumphal fanfares.

Fortunately, we don't have to pay the toll.

Oweir Threeblood from the Salt Caves

Fri, 22 May 2009 11:04:30 GMT

The farmer serves me the promised fresh milk along with crusty, dense slabs of bread spread with thick dollops of butter. There's jam made from pale wine grapes and a hard orange cheese so delicious I wonder if I could import it, and both pair so well I alternate bites. Over this ambrosial repast, the farmer and I talk... the easy casual talk of weather and crops that I belatedly recognize as kin to the conversations I overheard my parents having with the crofters of the Sunblood Cliffs. It's rewarding and relaxing and I enjoy myself immensely... so much so that I forget to don my official persona when Tam Vinter arrives to visit his father with Oweir an unexpected sight at his back.

"Hello, Captain."

"Mistress," he says, eyes wide. "I didn't think to find you here."

I smile, though the expression on his face disquiets me. "Just visiting Tam's father. Seeing how my feather blessing served."

"Served very well, it did," the farmer says, patting his muzzle dry with a napkin.

"I'm... just visiting too," Oweir says, looking uncomfortable.

Tam's father looks from me to Oweir and rises to clap a hand on the back of Tam's shoulder. "Come on, son. We can do our catching up outside."

I am left with Oweir and the feeling that there's something unspoken thickening the air between us. "Sit," I say.

He does, eyes on the loaf of bread. Studying his face, I try to guess at the source of his discomfort. I go with my first hunch. "Spending a lot of time with Tam, then?"

"He is my second," Oweir says, low. He toys with the farmer's discarded knife, then says, "I'd like to stay here."

"In Shraeven," I say.

"Yes."

He's still not looking at me. "What about the Salt Caves?" I say.

"I'm only a threeblood, Mistress," Oweir says. "And I'm not the heir to the Caves. They won't need me." He sucks in a breath. "The Godkin... I'm only a threeblood. And I lived with that all my life, the burden of being less-than-good-enough, and... and the need to marry properly and..." He trails off, gathering himself. "And then we come here and find out that it was all a lie? Every abuse my family suffered in silence, every prejudice...."

"I know," I say, my voice gentle.

"I like Tam. And... working with the mongrels, I guess I saw... I don't know. It's like the wreckage we left behind. But here they don't do that. They don't... don't make that kind of mess."

And it healed something in his heart, I see, to find a place where the cruelties that shaped his childhood are as nothing. So it is a concession and not an argument when I say, "They make different kinds of messes."

"Yes," he says, grateful that I've understood.

"And this has nothing to do with you having dead here?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle.

"Of course it does," Oweir answers, meeting my eyes finally. "But it's not the only reason."

We're silent then, a less burdensome silence now that he's relieved himself of his secret.

"What are you planning to do?" I ask.

"I'm not sure. I was talking with Tam, thought I'd take up merchanting... something different from... all this."

"All this being your military duties," I say. "Which you cannot up and leave without finishing your term of service."

His head jerks up. "Mistress, please—"

I sigh and pour the last of the milk into my cup. "Don't worry, I'm not going to keep you if you want to go." Thinking of my words to Mara not far from this spot only a few weeks ago, I say, "I need no heart-lamed captains."

He has the grace to look embarrassed. "Mistress...."

"Enough, Oweir," I say, tired. "We'll go through the motions of cutting you loose before we leave Black Vines. You can stay with Tam."

He hesitates, then says, "Ma'am... I'd prefer to ride to the border with you."

I glance at him, meet his steady gaze. We've almost made it through our entire campaign in Shraeven and he wants to see it through, and even though I'd prefer to deal with replacing him sooner rather than later I respect that desire. I smile. "All right, Captain. To the border. Now do your Mistress Commander a favor and go fetch back that farmer we chased out of his own home."

"Yes, ma'am!"

Revisiting Old Friends

Thu, 21 May 2009 10:59:36 GMT

We smell Black Vines before we see it, the wine-sweet perfume of its vineyards permeating the air so that it seems to sparkle on the palate. But soon enough we see the town as well, and there as expected we find the waiting throng... and one lone figure standing in the middle of the Royal Tribute where it runs into the town proper: a short figure in skirts, with the pointed ears and sinuous grace of an arboreal predator. Even from a distance, I can see that she stands erect with health and pride.

"Mayor Mara," I call as we draw within earshot. "Have you done well by your people?"

"Former-Governor Angharad Godkin," she answers. "I have... and so have you." She turns to Ragna and bows deeply. "Your Grace. Be welcome to Black Vines."

Ragna's whiskers arch. "Thank you."

"May I walk alongside you to your lodgings?"

Ragna considers. "Are your people going to pelt me with flowers?"

"No," Mara says.

"Grapes?"

"Certainly not!" Mara says. "That would be expensive."

"Then please do," Ragna says, with just enough relief to be noticed. Mara's eyes sparkle and she puts a hand on the side of her queen's mount. Together we process through Black Vines, which is looking far more prosperous and its people more content then when last we arrived. But then, Mara's had time to undo the oppression and injustices that corrupt former mayor Candahar visited on his own. The work appears to have healed her spirit also: she looks much better. I am glad to see it.

As with Crossroads, Ragna vanishes into a room with the mayor. I am left to my own devices, so I let the sunny streets lure me out of the inn and into the bustle of a town excited to be hosting their queen. I notice my men among them: Nedwin's given them liberty, then. Probably in shifts... I don't see enough of them for the Master-General to have turned the whole army loose. It's gratifying to have competent subordinates.

Still, there is only so much walking I'm willing to do. I delight and surprise some of the townsfolk when I soar up from among them and into the sky; with a wave to their upturned faces I ride the perfumed winds upward until I spot a red roof, a large field and a single milk cow wandering the fence's edge. And then I can't resist. I land just outside the farmstead and knock on the door, once-twice-again. There's no answer. I wait a little longer as the cow watches from the pen.

"I suppose he went to town with everyone else," I tell the cow.

The door creaks open for Tam Vinter's father, who peers at me and then grins broadly. "Great Winged Spirit... have you brought me more manure?"

"No, sir," I say. "Only a queen."

"You bring useful gifts, Great Spirit," the farmer says, amused. "Come in, Godkin Lady. Have some fresh milk, if you're so minded."

"I'd be delighted," I say.

View Poll: Polls!

Our Messes

Wed, 20 May 2009 03:12:31 GMT

We continue our march through the warmth of a beautiful spring, traveling the Royal Tribute (which once again will be appropriately named) to the first of the major towns on the way to the border. Ragna's heralds give the mayor and citizens of Crossroads enough time to organize another flower petal shower; I can almost see her reconsidering her plan to announce her arrival in advance for the journey's remainder as we ride through the streets to the quarters we've been assigned in the mayorial estate.

For my part, I enjoy picking the petals out of her fur when we're alone, after she's done consulting with the mayor. We spend the remainder of her evening grooming one another, talking very little... my pard of many silences and I. I wait until she leaves to rest my head against the door and sigh. My first night in a soft bed after a week and a half on the road and all I can think is that it'll be empty. It's important to me not to let any of that regret show where Ragna can see it; our diverging lives are cause enough for heartache without adding histrionics.

Besides, if I get too lonely I can always set up a mirror over my bed....

Excellent. I can offer critique on the performance of your lovers!

Hush, I say, fluffing my pillow. When I lie down I find I'm smiling.

#

Days later, I am no longer smiling.

"Still there," Gavan mutters.

"Where would it have gone?" Donal says. At Gavan's look, he says, "The townsfolk wouldn't have returned to a town razed by bandits. And no one would have been here to hear the news that it might be safe to return."

Alongside me, Ragna looks grim, ears slicked back.

I square my shoulders. "We have work to do." Nedwin and my captains glance at me. "We destroyed Throughby. The least we can do is drag all the broken furniture out of the houses and put the bricks in piles."

Accustomed by now to my unconvential orders, Gavan says, "Right, I'll start organizing the parties. Donal, I could use your advice, your men have been consistently good at this civilian work."

"Of course," Donal says, and he and my captains leave, already discussing the assignment.

I meet Nedwin's gem-bright eyes. He is silent... then nods once. "As you command, Your Grace."

When we are alone, Ragna murmurs, "You don't have to do this."

"Yes," I say. "I do."

She reaches between our beasts and rests her hand on mine.

#

Sorting the remains of Throughby doesn't take long with the amount of people we've brought. I watch the work from a distance: it's no longer my place to have a more direct role and I don't want to give my generals and commanders the impression I don't trust their competence. My light touch is rewarded: by nightfall even the most exacting of taskmasters would have been pleased with our progress. We'll be able to leave the following afternoon at the latest, if I'm any judge.

I am taking a tisane before bed when Nedwin asks for admission into my tent. I wave him in and grant him leave to sit. He takes the chair but politely declines my offer of a cup.

"I never liked what we were doing here," he says without preamble.

"I know," I say. "Or you and I wouldn't be having this conversation." At his glance, I finish, "I would have replaced anyone who did."

He stares at my tea-cup, then says, "Why did you do it?"

I tilt my head. "Do what?"

"You said 'we destroyed Throughby'. But you had nothing to do with it. We all know that. You could have saved face by denying it."

"I don't believe you save face by avoiding responsibility for your actions," I say mildly. "Do you?"

"Of course not," Nedwin says. "What I'm trying to say is this wasn't your responsibility."

"Whose was it, then?" I ask.

"Mine," he says.

And then I understand why he's here. I sit back in my chair and wait, and as I expect he continues.

"I didn't want to do it. But after Shamreine..." He rubs his brow. "Gods, Shamreine was a bloodbath. I thought Dupoan was bad, but there wasn't a living body in Shamreine that didn't resist our invasion. The women, the old men... even the children, Angharad. To pacify Shamreine I had to kill everyone. And for that I received no recognition."

Is that true?

The habit women had of killing themselves on our swords made it hard for him to accomplish his primary mission of sending me possible mothers of the godhead child. I was... unimpressed.

"And then I'm sent here. To kill peasants and loot their homes... and to do it in bandit armor." Nedwin scrubs his dark face. "Keeping discipline among the men was so hard we stopped trying. We recruited real bandits to do most of the work and left our own to scouting duties. I hated it. Every moment of it." Straightening he says, "And now you claim this travesty. You should have disavowed it."

"...and you," I say. "That's how that sentence ends, isn't it."

He meets my gaze, unflinching.

I cast among all the possible responses and finally say, "That's not how I do things."

This doesn't satisfy him; I can tell by the frustration that tightens the skin around his eyes. So I lean forward and say, "You shouldn't have done what you did to Shraeven, Nedwin. But you also shouldn't have been commanded to do it. Throughby is my shame... because if it's not, then I'm the kind of ruler who could create another Throughby. And I need to never, ever become the kind of ruler who could create another Throughby. Do you understand?"

This reaches him, though by the outward flick of his ears he is surprised. He sits up, his shoulders losing their inward crumple. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Good," I say. "I'm glad we could clear that away. Now get some rest, Master-General. You've had a busy day."

"Yes, Your Grace," he says again... and bows to me before he leaves.

I sigh. "You made a blood-cursed mess of things, Lucien."

I was a little busy trying to breed a god for our country.

"Too busy to administrate your own empire?" I say, arch. And then pour the rest of the tisane back into the pot. "Ah, what does it matter. You get to help me clean it up."

My mess is your mess, eh?

"Hells, yes," I say, and go to bed.

View Poll: Timing

Purity, Responsibility

Tue, 19 May 2009 14:27:22 GMT

A matter before we go, the Godson says.

I wish for a mirror, even a puddle of water, so I can see the expression that goes with that tone. Yes?

Since you like privacy for communing with gods, he says, and we have it...

I... don't think this is the time, I say. The guards—

I'll take care of them. Angharad, it needs to be said. Do you really think being raped makes you impure?

Do you blame me? I say, irritated. I tuck a strand of white hair behind one ear. Our religion thinks poorly of appropriated wombs.

Our religion thought poorly of people who appropriate them, he corrects. And thinks highly of children born of multiple bloodlines, no matter where they came from. The father of your child is a criminal. Your baby will be Godkin and free of stain.

You notice there's no guidance here on how the woman caught between them should feel, I say.

No, he agrees. That's up to her to decide. So why did you decide to feel soiled? Did you feel it was your fault?

I've made my living by the sword, I say, bringing my knees up and resting my wrists on them. And I couldn't overcome them.

Yes, I heard it was a 'them' and not a 'him'. The Godson sounds angry now. An entire pack of 'them'.

I squint, tilting my head. "How'd you know that?"

You underestimate my information sources. I'm... I was... a ruler, Angharad. It's my job to know everything.

Talking out loud makes me feel better. "Guess that'll be easier now that you're a god."

His sigh ruffles the side of my ear inside my head. Don't change the subject.

I flex my toes and say nothing. I can almost feel his too-insightful mind working. Those eyes narrowing, ears flicking back.

There's more to this than I can see, isn't there. Let me think.

I wait, and strangely I'm more curious to see if he'll figure it out than I am anxious that he will. And... he doesn't disappoint me.

It's because you have stained bloodlines already, isn't it? You think somehow the violence that once perpetuated your bloodline returned, or makes it appropriate that you were assaulted.

A great weight rises from my heart. I feel no joy, only a kind of dull relief. Well, that and a remote amusement. "You're far too smart."

That was my job too. So what animal was it?

I exhale. "A coatl."

A coatl... that must have been... uncomfortable.

I start laughing, though my cheeks are wet. "I'm sure it was."

How far back?

"Three generations," I say.

The night wind ruffles my hair, pulls it over my shoulders. I find his pause unexpected. I was anticipating some attempt at comfort, though I didn't particularly want it.

My father, the Godson says, voice low, was raped by a hydra.

"What?" I say, startled. And then, "Your father?"

Yes. My father. No possibility of a child to redeem that violence. A raped woman has some dignity, particularly if she bears a child. A raped man is a joke.

Something about the way he says it... I flick my ears back. "You were there."

No answer.

"How old were you?" I ask.

Nine. I was nine.

"Blood and gods," I whisper. Imagining a boy that age witnessing his father's assault is almost distracting enough that I miss the significance of the date. "Wait... that was when your father..."

Went insane, yes. Abandoning his twin and his son to drown in his own self-loathing. The anger in his voice is cold and hard, but the violence of fire is sizzling behind it. Ignore your baby and let it grow up without your love and guidance. Forsake the family who would wither without your presence in their lives. Fail in your duties and responsibilities because you want to withdraw from the world to contemplate your unworthiness. THEN we can talk about shame. But merely being raped? He stops. His voice is calmer when he finishes. It's all in how you choose to act.

"I'm... gods, I'm sorry," I say.

I can almost imagine him rubbing his face. I am too. I didn't mean to minimize your experiences. It's just...

"No," I say. "That was exactly the right thing to say." And it was. Comfort would have affirmed a sense of victimhood, somehow. Of crimes so far back in my family history they have no relevance to me, and of crimes that I did my best to prevent and couldn't. But I don't want to feel like a victim. I don't want comfort. Duty has always been my anodyne to pain. And then I say, "What's your name?"

Pardon? He sounds distracted, as if he was lost in his own thoughts as well.

"Your name," I say. "You're not the Godson anymore, and calling you "Fire" is too impersonal. What was your name before your formal investiture?"

His pause feels like surprise somehow, but he answers. Lucien.

"Do you mind if I call you that?"

Only if I can call you Hara.

I laugh. "All right. You've earned that."

I can hear his smile, though his voice sounds tired. Now we can go back, I think.

I nod. "Yes. And thank you. Lucien."

You're welcome, Hara.

As I sprint across the plains, wings spread, I say, I never expected to like you this much.

What can I say. I'm irresistible.

Braindead, no poll!

The Memory of Tiles

Tue, 19 May 2009 02:00:28 GMT

Despite our late start we make good progress before we break for the evening. There's a festive air among the men that extends into Ragna's entourage; the Godkindred are glad to be heading home (and without a fight to boot) and the Shraevenaese are escorting their queen on her first tour of their country. We've also been joined by stragglers here and there: the people Negrat led to the capital, those who hadn't already left for home, are following us. So it is a merry and enormous encampment that assembles in the purple dusk, with copper fires glowing inside white tents and the sound of laughter and music drifting on the breeze.

I ache from spending most of the day aloft; I am no longer accustomed to flying for extended periods, a problem I plan to fix now that I have ever-so-slightly more freedom to do so. If the queen of the Kingdom cannot go for a daily flight, then what's the good of being in charge? I'll call it my daily constitutional. I'll even be right.

I have one last stop before I find my bed.

Your guards will be horrified to find you've wandered off alone, the Godson observes as I land some distance from the camp.

I'm not alone, I say. You're with me.

I'm not sure they'll think that sufficient...

They'd better not say that to us, I say. Unless we run into the goddess of ice, I have the feeling you could handily put paid to anything attacking me. Besides... I draw in a deep breath of the wildflower scent of the plains at night, communion with the gods has to be done in private.

We talk quite a bit in company.

Foreign gods, I say and have a seat. I wrap my arms around my knees and look out over the horizon. Squint up into the night sky at the stars.

"What did it mean?" I ask. "To be Crowned. If I was not to be Shraeven's queen, why the rumors? Why the paints?"

"Isn't it obvious?" a voice says behind me.

I twist to look over my shoulder. "And here I thought you'd become Ragna's problem."

Negrat grins. "I'll visit her after I'm done with you."

"So," I say. "The Crowned came to liberate Shraeven. Did you know? What it meant, my paints? The Crowned legends? Did you know about the temple of the Star-chosen?"

He pulls his robe under his knees and sits down, arranging the fabric around himself with a few pats. "Of course not. I see glimpses of the pattern, but it is not given to us to see its entirety."

"Even you shamans," I say.

"Even we shamans," he says.

"And here I'd hoped to finally get some answers," I say.

Negrat chuckles. "You should know better, Godkin woman. Life is not an answer."

Thinking of the temple priest's story, I say, "Not for us mortals, anyway." I look at him. "And yet, you read me the bones."

He is quiet. Then... "You, the Phoenix. Your company, the Thunderstorm. Your challenge, the Betrayal. Your future if you decline: Death. Your future if you accept: the Quest."

"The end of all things," I finish. "Sovereignty."

"By way of a trial by love," Negrat says, nodding. "So, Godkin Woman... did the bones speak your truth?"

I cover my face, torn between warring emotions. What I say when I finally look up is, "Can you teach me to do that?"

"Read bones?" Negrat grins. "Ah, no. That is my way. You will have to find your own... if you truly want to see forward into other people's patterns."

I am remembering the stone tile that represented Love in Negrat's set: four interlocked circles, with the middle marked with a dot. For the Godkindred, love's symbol uses only two circles. How prescient, that tile, to have guessed at just how complex my trial-by-love would prove to be.

"I think I'll leave the future to itself," I say.

"Wise," Negrat says. "You'll do well."

I glance at him and say, "Thanks."

He leaves me there to the wind and land and the distant scent of the sea.

What do you suppose the betrayal was? the Godson asks.

I think of Silfie turning against men, and me, and her unborn baby. I think of Colblain sneaking away to warn Nedwin of my plans. I think of Chordwain promising to protect his province and then using Nedwin to pillage it. I think of Nedwin agreeing to it. I think of my heart, torn in so many directions: against my beloved, against my body, against my religion, my country, my life. And I think of fate, giving us what we've worked toward for so long... only to reveal we will have to renounce it.

What part of any of this wasn't?

He is silent, but I feel him sitting beside me. After a time, he says, I forgive you, you know.

I know. I draw in a long breath. Let's get back before they send someone to find me.

View Poll: Almost done...

Rose Petals and Fire

Sun, 17 May 2009 13:39:31 GMT

I'm waiting for Ragna outside the city gates when she finally appears with her entourage... there are rose petals clinging to the thick fur of her arms, in her mane and on the tail curled over the back of her mount. I knee Honeydipped over and pluck one of them from her head, my mouth twitching. "Let me guess. Impromptu parade?"

"Where do they get all these rose petals?" Ragna asks, holding still for my ministrations. You have to listen hard for it, but there's a trace of exasperation in her voice.

"It's spring," I say, smiling. "I'm sure in summer it would be something else. Ripped up paper, maybe."

"At least the rose petals make good fertilizer," she mutters.

I laugh and turn my attention to the man at her side. "So you're coming along too, then."

"Of course," Negrat says, beaming up at me. His pony is short enough to put his head at Ragna's hip, but the absurdity of it suits him. This is the man who explained the godhead to me using knots tied in a dirty blanket... and it turns out he was right all along. I find myself wishing for someone like him to counsel me in my new role... but I am the shaman of the Godkindred kingdom. I'll have to find my own way.

"Of course," I say. "Shall we go, then?"

Ragna arches her whiskers at me and we go. Her small group—herself, Negrat, and what looks like a few servants, a scribe and several guards—rides out first... and following, I pull an army behind me, the steady drum of their boots shaking the earth beneath Honeydipped's feet. Wagons roll alongside, drawn by the army's beasts; my egg is in one of them, attended by several soldiers. Above us the corvid messenger and his mate dip and swirl, shadows against a bright sky.

It feels good to be leaving. I should be enjoying it. Instead, I'm occupied by the need to fill the holes in the command structure, wondering who to promote into Cassandre's and my slots. I'll have to chat with Nedwin about it in the ample time we'll have between here and the next stop. An army—even the Godkindred Kingdom's finest—does not cover ground quickly.

As if summoned, Nedwin joins me, reining his mount in alongside mine.

"Good afternoon, Nedwin," I say.

"Good afternoon, Your Grace," he says. He lifts his dark face to the spring breeze and twitches his ears forward. "Good weather for this. I hope it holds."

"It will," I say firmly and unhook my feet from the stirrups. When I grasp the pommel of my saddle, Nedwin glances at me and says, "What are you doing, Your Grace?"

I forget he's never ridden with me on campaign. I grin at him and say, "Accompanying my men, as always." And then I get my feet under me and with a leap I'm skyborne. As I soar upward, a dart of fire rips free of the air and spirals around me, dancing... and beneath us, hundreds of faces look upward and cheer.

Nicely done, I say to him.

I like a spectacle, the Godson says, and I'm pleased to hear the smug satisfaction in his voice again. Together we overfly our people, finally homeward-bound.

No poll today... brainless!

Going Home

Sat, 16 May 2009 11:59:50 GMT

The following day Ragna and I agree on the final revision of the treaty and the heralds are sent out to announce the formal signing on the morrow. I spend the evening packing what little I took from my trunks and then lie on the bed, looking out the window at the stars over Shraeven's sea. This is not the last time I will see them... but it still feels like a goodbye, like an ending. I was supposed to stay here, after all... to take up the governor's mantle, to oversee Shraeven province until such time as the Godson called me home... or more likely, I died a good servant of the Kingdom. But my road did not lead here. Instead I will leave and the Governor's mansion will become the Queen's residence.

Colblain is right. It's past time for us to go home. I fall asleep with the light of the stars on my brow.

In the morning, Ragna and I dress for our roles and process to the square, and there in the shade of Ragna's tree, before the eyes of hundreds of citizens, we put a quill to the twin copies penned by the governor's scribes. The work is handsome: these are documents worthy of the words on them and the relationship they define. As we make the required speeches and then sign the treaty, I think that all I will remember of this day is the shine off the still-tacky ink, the brine scent on the breeze... and the perfume of the god-kindled flowers blooming above us.

We return to a manse in tumult as dozens of servants prepare in haste for Ragna's tour. I am glad to see the egg carried out and my trunks borne away and then to follow, leaving her to organize her people. I have my own duties.

***

"All is in order?" I ask, sitting astride Honeydipped.

"We're ready to march at your convenience, your Grace," Nedwin responds.

I wonder when all this "your grace"ing began. Whose idea was it? Did they really call the Godson that?

Yes, he says, breaking the uncommon silence in my head.

I imagine that grew tiresome, I say, trying to draw him out.

It's the least of the things that will bother you, he says. Trust me.

I don't think I'm going to have much time to be annoyed by petty things, I say, my gaze flowing over the serried ranks and finding the discipline remarkable. I wasn't sure Fort Endgame's men would be this sharp so soon after the desertion of their general, but they seem more together now than before she left.

Good riddance, then, I think.

I hope your vixen catches her and gives her what she's earned, the Godson says.

Silfie's silk robe is folded into a tight square and packed in my saddlebag. I feel it against my leg and fight the wash of melancholy.

They'll be wanting you to marry, the Godson says. And for that you'll need... dresses.

Startled from my moping, I say, "What?"

Nedwin glances at me.

Dresses, the Godson says. And parties. And many, many elgible bachelors.

They didn't force you to marry! I object.

Of course not, he says. They gave me a harem. Do you want a harem? It could be arranged...

The idea is horrible, just... just awful. But he's teasing me again and that makes it worth the embarrassment. The quiet has felt unnatural. No... no, one man is going to be enough trouble. Besides, unlike you I have to spend several months making my heirs. I can't just scatter them around my imperial concubines.

I'm going to miss sex, the Godson says, wistful.

I burst out laughing.

"Your Grace?" Nedwin asks, ears flicking backward.

Go on. Tell him how good I am at this! I put jesters to shame!

"Nothing," I say, wiping my eyes. "Nothing."

I want a hat. With bells!

You don't have a head anymore, I say, suppressing my grin. I kick my heels into Honeydipped's sides and say, "Let's go."

View Poll: Final Cover Poll

...Aftermath

Fri, 15 May 2009 15:55:58 GMT

"I don't know what to do with all this," Oweir murmurs at last, breaking the silence.

"What is there to do?" Donal asks. "It is. Accept it and move on."

"Spoken like a provincial," Oweir says. "Accept it... just like that! Don't you see how this affects everything?"

"Everything for the Godkindred, perhaps," Donal says. "You always did concern yourself overmuch with divinity."

"Oweir's right," I say. "Whether the Neshanti or the Shraevenaese dispute the wisdom of it, the Kingdom's culture revolves around the presumption of impending godhead. This..." I stare at the walls, jaw tight. "This will change everything. Again."

Gavan glances once more at the inside of the temple, then says, "I'm tired of talking about it. I want to go home and get to work." And then he steps outside. Rubbing his upper arms as if against some internal cold, Oweir follows. One by one the others look their fill and leave... until at last I am alone with Colblain.

"He's right," Colblain says, staring at the murals. "We need to go home."

I nod. "I know. But we had to know this first."

Colblain says, "Yes. And the changes are going to be monumental in scope. But we're men of acts. Too much idleness is bad for our souls." He glances at me and says, "Take us home, your Grace." And then he too leaves.

My heart starts beating again a few moments later.

We should keep him, the Godson says, and though his tone is subdued we're both grateful for the attempt at humor.

I hadn't planned otherwise, I say. I look over my shoulder once at the pictures of the gods descending from heaven and follow my own into the sun.

No poll today, brain fried!

The Secret

Thu, 14 May 2009 14:12:34 GMT

The interior of the temple is dim and smells of pine incense; I raise my head and discover that the shingles aren't fitted flush to one another, but arranged so that pinpoints of light form a grid pattern like hundreds of stars.

The others join me; they too stare up at the "sky" despite the brilliance of those pinpoints of light.

At last, Colblain says, "What do they do when it rains?"

The headmost priest says, "We mop."

Startled by the broken silence, I turn to face him... and then I see the rest of the temple. Its walls are faced with murals in rust red, black, white and turquoise.

"You are to hear the story," the priest says. "If you wish."

"I do," I say.

My people scatter to examine the paintings in the dusky quiet. I stay by the headmost priest's side.

"The walls are easier to read when you know the tale," he says. "Your people have spent their lives trying to become gods, Angharad Godkin. But the gods came to this world to become us."

"Pardon me?" I ask.

"Becoming a god separates one from reality," the priest continues. My eyes catch on a depiction of figures in the mountains, carrying urns down from an egg-shaped dwelling. "It becomes harder to feel passion for, understanding of, empathy for others. One becomes less capable of love, grief, joy... and the gods missed these emotions. They longed to find completion in others again. So they came here, enrobed themselves in flesh and devoted themselves to a mortal life."

"Are you telling us that being a god is so awful the gods wanted to be mortal?" Gavan says, incredulous.

"Everyone always wants what someone else has," Donal murmurs.

"So our plan to breed back to gods...," I begin.

"Such a plan does not work," the priest says, "except by accident. Godhead cannot be achieved by interbreeding."

"Then how did we do it?" I ask, because the Godson is pressing over my shoulder, torn between horror and his need to know what he's gotten into.

"Enough desire, and the soul remembers itself," the priest says.

"Wait," Colblain says. "You're saying we're all gods?"

The priest eyes him. "Do not simplify a complex matter. You are not gods. You are the children of enfleshed gods. As such each person is born with the potential... but the potential must be realized. And few mortals have the single-minded focus to devolve to godhead."

"Devolve!" Gavan exclaims.

"Were you not listening?" the priest asks. "The gods came here to become mortal because godhead deprived them of a vital experience, one they judged more important than power or knowledge."

"But that makes no sense!" Gavan says.

I frown a little. "Maybe it's like being told the answer without having to work through the question." I look up at the priest. "Is that it? You said 'a vital experience.' What we want is knowledge and power, but what they wanted was to live through the uncertainty of seeking the answer."

The priest nods. "You understand."

"Careful," Gavan says sourly. "You might transcend your mortal flesh there, Angharad."

I look at the murals again, my heart sinking. "What does it mean for the gods, then?"

The priest glances at me.

"I mean... do they... suffer?" I ask.

"You ask after the companion on your shoulder," the priest guesses. "He seems mortal now, yes? He is close to mortality, close enough to remember. But the years will pass, one after the next, and those memories will erode. And then he will become as the Winds, the Land, the Sea. He will forget what it is to love and trust. To truly live."

Somehow I can feel the Godson shaking.

Don't worry, I promise him. We'll think of something.

"I congratulate him," the priest finishes. "He has achieved something that only zeal and great focus of mind can bring forth. But he did not understand the end he has bought himself. Or rather, the lack of an end. That is what puts paid to the heart that feels, in the end."

"Look at this," Oweir says, quiet. "It looks like him."

He's standing in front of a mural of a winged figure... one with a face as flat as the Godson's. The eyes are bigger and solid white and he's missing the Godson's catlike ears, but the similiarities are unmistakable.

"But... if breeding doesn't lead to godhead, why does he look like one of them?" Oweir finishes.

"Because mix-breeding dilutes the characteristics of the species that mix," Ragna guesses. "And so we express the traits of our ancestors, unadorned."

The priest nods. "The gods did not anticipate the issues that would arise with pure breeding when they cloaked themselves in flesh. Some interbreeding is necessary to lay claim to their virtues."

"Like intelligence," I say, feeling sick.

"Like intelligence," the priest agrees. When we are silent, he says, "You may stay as long as you wish," and turns away.

"Wait," I say. "Why you? Why do the Star-chosen know the secret?"

The priest smiles. "Because the Stars are not a god... but the means by which the gods reached this world. The faithful servant recalls the memory of the masters and holds that trust for their children."

This time we let him leave.

"Blood and gods," Gavan whispers.

I can feel the Godson hovering and wish I could clasp his arm.

View Poll: Bleh

The Hidden

Wed, 13 May 2009 13:20:49 GMT

The temple perches on an island so small there's room only for it and a small skirt of land; the beach is encircled in the lace of a complex coral that the priests navigate without apparent effort. Past this island I spot three others, just as small, each with one or two shacks. There are people moving on them, hard to focus on past the sun's reflection off the water... not many, but more than I expected.

"What is this place?" I murmur. I twist to look at Ragna. "Did you know about this?"

She shakes her head. "As you noticed when the Stars first chose you, most people of Shraeven consider the Stars an interloper. Not one of our gods, but an outsider. Few people trust the Star-chosen... and we can afford to, because we see them so rarely."

"So they've been hiding here," Donal says, brows lifting. "...at the mouth of your capital's river."

"Not quite the mouth," I murmur, looking around us at the sea.

"The point stands," Donal says, glancing at Ragna. "They're a stone's throw from your governor's bed."

"So it seems," Ragna says. "But we never did much ocean trade; we have docks for visiting vessels, but we don't have a fleet of our own." She doesn't even wait for my response to continue, "I'll change that, if we can afford it. But if we're to reciprocate ocean-going trade, we need money for both merchant vessels and escorts, and Shraeven isn't that rich."

"We can discuss sharing convoy duties later," I say, thinking of the ships I have to call back from the Godson's attempt at foreign adventurism. "For now it appears we have a cult to visit."

The reed boat slides up the shore. Several more priests help pull it above the high-tide line. Like the three who came to fetch us, they are silent, swathed in white and distractingly androgynous: dressed the same and looking much alike. It reminds me a little of the pards, as if they've interbred for length of limb and those unreadable faces. The fur on the back of my neck bristles.

The temple isn't very big: built of black and dark gray stone with narrow, tall walls and that amazing roof, each shingle shining with gold paint. They must repaint them frequently for it to look so perfect while whipped by salt-laced winds and the inevitable weather. The priests wait in silence for us to assemble... then separate, leaving our three to lead us to the black doors. Two of them split off to open them and the foremost alone is engulfed by the darkness inside.

I follow.

Poll: Cover Stuff!
Leave your vote as a comment this time: what/who do you want to see on the cover of the hard copy?

To Mystery

Tue, 12 May 2009 15:17:53 GMT

We meet one another's eyes for several heart-beats. I am aware of the silence rippling out from us into the room, of the complete stillness of the people around me.

Then in a low voice, Ragna says, "Angharad?"

GO WITH THEM.

Uhnn! the Godson says as I suppress the urge to wince and press on my temples.

"Angharad!" Donal says, putting a hand on my arm.

"It's all right," I say. "My head's just a little small for the Stars."

I see my captains glancing at one another in my periphery but ignore it; surely they're used to my oddness by now. Instead I look at the impassive priests. "What do we do?"

"Come with us," the foremost says.

"I'm bringing my companions," I say, steeling myself for a fight, but the priests only turn and head back into the hall, displacing the agitated servants and guards.

"Does that mean we can come?" Gavan asks, puzzled.

"If it doesn't we can have that argument wherever we're going," I say. "Come on." I hesitate. "If you want to come."

They do, all of them. The corvid messenger hops onto my shoulder; even Benett the merchant follows. We trail the three priests down the stairs to the basement, where the pylons of the manse have been sunk deep into the delta's thin soil and channeled waters. There, tied to one of the platforms on a waterway, are three long, narrow boats woven of bronze reeds. These boats are large enough for all of us—had they known how many people would come?—and the priests separate, each to a different boat, to await our arrangement in each. There is no argument... only an unassailable calm.

Once we settle, the priests pole us away from the platform and out from beneath the shadow of the Governor's mansion... into a golden afternoon, the ocean's green waters dappled with scintillant light. The smell of brine and salt reminds of the Sunblood Cliffs and I draw in a long, sharp breath. My eyes hurt, the sun is so bright on the back of the sea; it makes me aware of close things, of the slap of the water on the boat's sides, of the creak of the reeds, of Donal and Ragna breathing behind me.

"I hope this secret isn't under the water," Donal says at last.

"I doubt it," I say. Wouldn't the Sea have said something? Or I would have noticed it, swimming with her... wouldn't I?

You went swimming underwater? With wings? the Godson asks, incredulous.

Just think of the things you'll be able to do when you're used to your power, I say to forestall any jealousy.

The priest says nothing... and we soon see why.

"Oh," Donal murmurs.

Ragna puts a thick hand on the edge of the boat and leans over it to stare, her eyes unblinking. The corvid messenger steps closer to my neck.

Can I have one of those? the Godson asks wistfully.

And I... I am silent as the isle draws nigh, the gilt roof of its stone temple glittering so brightly my eyes narrow to watering slits.

View Poll: The Godson as Therapist!

The Star-Chosen

Mon, 11 May 2009 11:40:11 GMT

Gavan, Oweir, Donal and Colblain arrive with the morning, fortunately in time to help me dissect Ragna and Benett's counter-offer. Colblain in particular proves useful, with his experience running his own province; in response to nearly every one of his comments the Godson feels compelled to say something pithy or approving or wry but appreciative. It makes me wish the two of them could talk directly and save me the trouble of deciding which parts to relate and which to keep to myself.

Donal spends most of his time chuckling over this opportunity to take notes in preparation for the treaty the Godson and I will advance to Aneshet.

We have a lively few days, thus, trading concessions and corrections. I pay attention to everyone who knows more than I do and I learn a great deal... and I am glad of the company for more personal reasons, having become accustomed to the presence of my captains as advisors and companions. As to the work, I find the negotations feel a little like a duel... or a sparring match, perhaps, since we are all friends. It is pleasantly engaging. I begin to think I could come to like being a civilian leader. I begin to feel comfortable.

That would be the afternoon the corvid messenger swoops back in the window to land on my table, scattering the pages of the latest draft of the treaty. We all look up at him and his gaping grin.

"Uh-oh," Oweir says.

The door to my room opens on several guards and a few servants, all of them chagrined or flustered and wearing that particular look the powerless get when they've been out-manoeuvered. One guard says to Ragna, "Apologies, your Grace. They insisted."

We don't have to ask who they are. Three slim figures advance in the guards' wake, swathed in white robes as sleek as sea-foam falling off the tide. On the foremost's shoulder is the gray mate of my raven.

"Angharad Godkin," the figure in the lead says in an androgynous tenor. "We come from the Stars. It is time."

My men are rising from their chairs, and I see hands reaching for swords. I hold out my hands to stay them and stand also. "Time for what?"

"To reveal the knowledge you have desired," the priest says, meeting my gaze with eyes as pale as mountain water. "The truth of the gods."

View Poll: Preparing for the hard copy

The Right Role

Sun, 03 May 2009 11:11:49 GMT

Ragna and Benett ask for time alone; I suspect the Queen of Shraeven will soon be getting the same kind of lecture I received from the Godson on matters of trade. I am happy to wave them away... once was enough for me.

Negrat stays. Because of course, he is a shaman. If he didn't know I wanted to talk to him, he would still have stayed out of shamanistic peskiness.

"So," Negrat says, pouring himself more tea and grinning. "White wings again. How do you feel?"

"Strange," I admit. Before he can ask another question, I get my own in. "Can you hear him?"

"What, your native god?" Negrat chuckles. "No. I can tell you talk, but not what you say." At my look, he laughs more. "What, you expected much else? He is your god, not mine."

Funny, he said 'god' and I heard 'problem.' "Why does he talk to me all the time?"

I like talking to you.

Ignoring the Godson, I finish, "The gods of Shraeven weren't quite so..." Mouthy. "...active."

"I cannot tell you, Godkin woman," Negrat says. "As you noted, my gods, they are not so talkative unless they want something, Perhaps your Godson is more polite then, and seeks companionship as well as to make you his tool." He looks up at me, lifting his brows. "But there is an easier route to an answer."

I lean forward, hopeful....

"You could ask him," Negrat says, sipping his tea.

I flat my ears. "I was being serious."

"I also," Negrat says. "You have the god at your disposal. Ask."

Well? I say, trying not to sound surly. You want to tell me why you hang around?

Because you like it.

AHHRRRH!

Negrat's cheeks plump from the size of his grin. "You did not like his answer."

"He's flippant," I say.

"And you are not?" Negrat says. "You harangue him, I am betting."

"I harangued all of Shraeven's gods," I point out.

"Yes, but they are not the ones answering you," Negrat says. He shakes his head. "I do not know, Angharad. Perhaps it is just the style of your god, to be more... personal."

I try not to moan. "I don't need a personal god!"

I could just fling rocks at you whenever I want your attention, if you prefer.

"No, that's quite all right," I say. When Negrat glances at me, I say, "Sorry, wrong conversation." And sigh. "Does this get easier?"

"You tell me," he says. "You have been doing it for months."

I cover my face. Negrat pats my shoulder, smiling. "Think of it this way. You can be the Godkindred's first shaman. It will be your turn to puzzle, frustrate and guide the seekers of wisdom."

"Right," I say. And sigh. "Thank you, Negrat."

He squeezes my shoulder. After he leaves, I go to the bedroom to sit next to the egg for a while. And snort. I'm not vague enough to be a shaman. Though it would be nice to be on the other side of the...

"...oh," I say.

Oh?

"Maybe..." I sit up suddenly and drag the mirror over. He's sitting on the opposite side of the egg... slouching. At least there's a blanket over his hips. "Do you think.... I mean, we were talking about the kind of leader the Kingdom needed, and I discarded military dictator..."

And you're thinking perhaps what we need is a Priestess? the Godson says, looking interested. A Priestess-Queen.

"I don't feel like much of a priestess," I admit.

What is a priestess supposed to feel like?

"Well... pious," I say. "And demure. And circumspect. And... pure."

I found the Godson's intelligence uncanny while he lived. I'm not sure how I feel about discovering he's retained it, crossing over. That's the one that bothers you, isn't it. You don't feel pure. Why, because you were raped?

Clearing my throat, I say, "There's still a sense that priests should be apart from the world. I'm a worldly sort."

Is that so, O consorter with five kinds of gods in the past season? He folds his arms over his chest. Be reasonable, Angharad. What is a priest but a mediator between the gods and their people? Even Shraeven was smart enough to realize a king needs to play that role.

"It makes a kind of sense," I say. "Except... doesn't that concentrate too much power in one place?"

Fire save me, the Godson says, exasperated. Yes. That is the point of a monarchy. You want power in one place, Angharad.

"But then no one could tell me when I'm doing something wrong," I murmur, thinking.

So hire advisors who are as insolent as you are, he says. If a god can find someone to give him cheek, then you should have no problem.

I wince. "I don't mean to be rude."

No, the Godson says. But you could try treating me as a welcome guest rather than as a nosy old uncle. He wrinkles his oddly flat nose. I'm far younger, for one. And smarter.

I hold up my hands. "All right, all right. I'm sorry. And... I guess it is... a little fun. The banter."

He grins. So... priestess?

"Maybe," I say. "Maybe."

He nods. As I'm reaching for the mirror to push it back in place, he says, Angharad?

I stop, looking at his reflection.

We're not finished with the purity matter.

"Later," I say, lowering my eyes.

Later, he agrees, but I know he'll bring it back up some other time. I think... I'm a little glad that he cares about my emotional well-being enough to make me uncomfortable. And that he's willing to listen, that's nice too. Maybe it's not so bad, having him around.

It's far preferable to having rocks flung at my head, that's certain.

View Poll: Whoo!

Deft Ragna, Pard Queen

Sat, 02 May 2009 15:40:00 GMT

Late morning finds us at the table in my antechamber, drinking tea together and looking over my draft of a suggested treaty. We've been joined by Benett and Negrat; my own captains are on their way, summoned by the same messenger who carried my instructions to Nedwin on what to do in my absence. I trust him to break camp and mobilize for a march, but I also don't want him to think I've forgotten the army now that I'm outside it.

...not that I'm sure I can ever forget the army. I was struggling with the prospect of becoming a civilian again when this campaign came along and yanked me out of retirement... now here I am again. Wondering how to be a woman who puts down the sword. Not only that, but a woman who lets others bear arms in her name.

You could always be a military dictator, the Godson whispers.

No, I say. We need a different kind of leadership.

He sighs in my ear... on the side of my ear inside my head, which is disconcerting. And you look so good with a sword, too. Are you sure?

I imagine myself glaring at him and try to pay attention to the conversation at hand.

"So, a treaty with our enemies," Benett is saying.

"They've had a change of face," Ragna observes, studying the pages before her and nodding to the young girl who refills her porcelain cup. It's the first time I've seen other people serving her. It underscores her change in status readily, and I have no doubt that Benett at least is reacting to it; he is treating her with more deference.

"I like to think I'm a little more of a friend to Shraeven than the previous head of the Kingdom," I say wryly.

Benett snorts. "Yes, a little. But still... you must know there will be... questions."

Ragna looks up.

"Legitimacy," Benett says. "We haven't had a monarch of our own in a while. There will be those who've forgotten that you're not supposed to have the gods' marks on you. And they'll say that you're the Godkindred's puppet."

Ragna grins with her whiskers... and her teeth. The merchant holds up his hands. "I'm just pointing out there might be challenges."

"I expect no less," Ragna says. "That's why I'm going with Angharad to the border."

"You're leaving the capital so soon?" Benett says. "But... you just took control!"

"Yes," Ragna says. "And I'd like to see as many of my mayors as possible as soon as possible. Plus, I would like to be seen escorting the foreigners out of the country. To make sure they leave." She glances at me. "If you don't object. It is a matter of appearances."

"Of course not," I say, bemused.

"That's settled then," Ragna says. She cants her head at Benett. "Yes?"

"It might help," he agrees. "But if it doesn't?"

"If it doesn't," Ragna says, "I hope you'll help me think of something to assuage their fears until my performance does so."

He laughs. "Are you so sure I don't think you're a Godkindred puppet?"

"Yes," Ragna says, whiskers arching in amusement.

Benett glances at me. "She is rather compelling..."

"She is," Ragna says, "the wrong sex to be of use to me, eh?"

"Ouch!" I say, laughing.

Ragna snorts. To Benett she says, "You want to trust me?"

"Yes," he says slowly.

"But you fear," Ragna says. "Very well. While I am gone... I will leave you in charge. As my steward."

Benett's ears flick back and his eyes widen. "You're serious?"

Ragna lifts her brows. "You will not do your best for Shraeven?"

"Yes!"

"Well then," she says. "You do not have to fear me coming back with all the gods' wrath to turn you into a tree."

The merchant chief eyes her, then laughs finally. "All right. That was well played. I accept your appointment, my lady."

"Good," Ragna says. "Because these trade stipulations are no doubt the contribution of the Godson, being very twisty. I need you to read them with me."

She's good, the Godson says.

Either that or you're not subtle enough.

I can't help it if you have the business acumen of a newt, Angharad. Anyone with half an eye could see that you wouldn't have thought of those provisions.

Negrat glances at me with great humor. I wonder if he can hear my internal dialogue... I wouldn't be surprised if so. Maybe I can ask him later why the Godson harangues me constantly as if he's pitched a tent in my head while all the other gods were courteous enough to give me a little peace now and then....

View Poll: Shaman Talk