Gods Unchained — Trial of the Gods

Story

Citadel of the Gods

Overview

It is difficult to describe the gods, and more difficult still to describe their Citadel. But I will try.

The Story

by Kelly Digges

Chapter 1: Citadel of the Gods

Present Day

It is difficult to describe the gods, and more difficult still to describe their Citadel. But I will try.

You’ve seen the statues of them in temples, of course. Incorruptible Thaeriel, cast in marble with his sword and circlet and wide-spread wings. Vengeful Auros, granite-carved and iron-clad, firelight glinting off his chain of broken crowns. Gentle Aeona, made of living wood, dressing herself for each season in turn. To mortal worshipers, the statues are the gods: terrible and beautiful.

These statues are the pale shadow of a blazing truth. Even when the gods themselves grace the surface of Eucos, they are but echoes—the greatest glory and power our little mortal world can host, but only echoes nonetheless.

Here, in the Citadel, one sees the truth of it: A god is an idea personified, a manifestation of one of the six domains of power that underlie the cosmos. Does Thaeriel wear a circlet in this place, in his truest form? Yes, but it is the halo of a sun-crowned mountaintop. He has wings, but they are cumulus clouds billowing across a turbulent sky. His sword is a ray of burning light. To look into his eyes is to stare into the sun, and be blinded. Even the choice of “he” or “she” is decided by historical convention more than literal fact.

And the Citadel! It is the highest of the Nine Realms, a place created by all six gods together as neutral ground. Here, their immense power can converge without worry of unwanted destruction, without interruption by the short-lived passions of mortals.

The floor is smooth stone, but it reflects things that are not present, and some that cannot be. Columns reach up into an infinite distance, supporting the sky above. Between the columns one glimpses other places—a hallway elsewhere in the Citadel from one angle, a storm-tossed sea from another, the Proscenium at Parthon from a third.

Great chains stretch at angles from the floor, vanishing between the columns. And past the columns are windows to the stars. The other Realms lie far below the Citadel, or so the scholars say. But here one looks straight out into the cosmos and sees them, each revolving slowly—around Eucos or around the Citadel, none can say. Only this place can house all the gods in their fullness without shaking to pieces.

The sight of one god inspires awe and terror. The sight of all six, together for the first time in mortal memory, in the seat of their splendor, is overwhelming. Yet here they are.

(I will use the present tense. No matter when you read this, or what has happened since, I cannot bring myself to write Thaeriel was. Gods are; it is their nature.)

In any case, let us hear what they have to say.

“My siblings, our wayward brother has returned at last!” booms Thaeriel, the God of Light. He shines from within, blazing down on Eucos with the proud heat of summer.

There is no applause, no commentary. They already know.

Elyrian, God of Magic, stands beside Thaeriel. He is hooded with night and robed in fog. His eyes are twin stars, distant and cold and brilliant. If he is looking at the others, it is only to peer through them, at things only he can see. He is the wayward brother, missing for centuries in the Great Chaos beyond the known realms, and he seems content to let Thaeriel speak for him.

Off to one side sits Aeona, God of Nature. The poets tell us, truthfully, that flowers bloom in her footsteps, and her smile brings life and laughter to the world. But today she is brooding. Dangerous. In Arkmonia far below, the Amazons find that their horses will not heed them, and great wolves howl in the woods.

“Welcome back, dear brother,” says Malissus, God of Death. Her voice is the whisper of wind over a lifeless desert, her skin the color of long-forgotten bones. “I shudder to think what would happen if I abandoned my realm for even a single year. How fortunate that your own domain spun on without you for hundreds.”

“If it couldn’t, I would not have left,” says Elyrian. Her tone does not seem to bother him.

Brooding Auros sits with Malissus, War and Death casually intertwined. Perhaps they are lovers, at the moment. (And lest that thought distress you, know that for all their talk of brothers and sisters, the gods are no more kin to one another than the tides are to the mountains.)

“Yes, welcome back!” yells Auros, and thunder echoes through the peaks of Kharkon. “Is that why you’ve called us here? To announce something we can all see as plainly as a daytime star?”

He gestures beyond the pillars, where a comet still blazes in the skies of Eucos. It was Elyrian’s chariot, bearing him home from the stars beyond the stars. Far below, the philosophers and sages still debate what it portends, ranging from the esoteric to the apocalyptic. Only one of them has guessed the truth, and they have not yet spoken it aloud.

Thaeriel smiles, but it is the cold, thin light of the sun shining through fog.

“The occasion deserves to be recognized,” says Thaeriel. But then he nods in acknowledgement. “That is not the only reason we are gathered.”

“An explanation, then,” growls Aeona, her eyes feral. “Elyrian, where have you been?”

The sixth god speaks at last, her words dripping with honey and malice.

“Yes,” says Ludia, the God of Deception, as a voice like steel and silk whispers No. “I’d say you owe all of us an explanation.”

The assembled gods begin to speak at once, a cacophony of conflicting energies. Children’s squabbles the world over suddenly turn ugly. In Tartessos, a man kills his brother, for reasons he will not remember later.

“I’ll admit I’m curious—”

“—don’t care what he was up to—”

“—abandoned us, abandoned me—”

Elyrian holds up a hand, and the gods fall silent. At his wordless command, the columns around them fall away, and the starry cosmos swells around them.

“What is the Great Chaos?” he asks.

Auros snorts like a bull. Aeona looks away. Malissus sighs heavily, the last rattling breaths of a hundred living things tumbling from her lips.

“They are not in the mood for sophistry, little brother,” says Thaeriel. “Tell them.”

“Very well,” says Elyrian. “You’ve all seen the Great Chaos. Felt it, beneath and around the other realms. You know that it eats away at form and structure. That what we call the cosmos is a bubble of calm in a vast sea of disorder with no apparent boundary.”

“So you say,” Aeona replies. “There is nothing beyond the cosmos. I knew this obsession would lead you astray!”

Elyrian continues as though she had not spoken.

“These facts are self-evident,” he says. “And, like many self-evident facts, they are incorrect.”

“It’s been so long,” says Malissus. “I’d forgotten just how boring you are when you’re declaiming.”

“There is order, beyond our realms,” says Elyrian. “The stars and constellations are proof enough of that. But there is far more out there. Patterns and echoes. I’ve been studying them, in the hopes of learning more about the cosmos, perhaps even about our own origins—”

“Enough!” says Thaeriel. “I told you, brother. They don’t care. It has always been your role to explore the limits of our understanding and the hidden truths they contain. The others care only for temporal things.”

Malissus scoffs at that, a sound like the bark of a hyena. Aeona snarls.

“Very well,” says Elyrian. “I shall keep my own counsel. I can’t say I’ve missed your collective indifference to my discoveries.”

“Is that it, then?” asks Ludia, as a voice whispers That’s all. “A family reunion and a lesson in cosmology?”

“No,” says Thaeriel. “I will show you the purpose of this meeting.”

Thaeriel’s eyes flare, and the starry cosmos recedes, replaced by a vast and gleaming arena. The sun beats down on it, as though they were far below, on Eucos.

Auros stands, and swords across Eucos loosen in their scabbards, eager for war.

“What is it?” asks Aeona.

“This is the Grand Arena,” says Thaeriel. His words ring out like a hammer on iron, indelibly fixing the name to the thing.

“Then we’re to fight,” says Auros, in a voice that seems torn between hunger and lust.

“No!” says Aeona. “The last time—”

“No,” says Thaeriel. “Never again.”

Malissus blows Thaeriel a kiss. The sun dims, just for a moment, and mortals across Eucos feel a sudden chill.

“Fah,” says Auros. “What, then? Shall we toss javelins and hold footraces?”

“This place will host a tournament,” says Thaeriel. “Each of us shall choose a mortal champion to embody our ideals and take on a portion of our power.”

“There is precedent,” adds Elyrian. “In the distant past.”

“Yes!” says Auros. “Yes. Another Demigods’ War!”

“There will be no war,” says Thaeriel. “Each champion will receive a trial—chosen by one god aside from their patron, subject to approval by the other four. Those who fail their trial fail the test.”

“What of those who succeed?” asks Ludia. Fail. “Do you plan to name a winner?”

“Fastest. Strongest. Most elegant. The answer will be obvious.”

“We will vote, if necessary,” says Elyrian.

“And what if we refuse to participate?” asks Malissus.

“It is your right to forfeit,” says Thaeriel.

“And why… this Arena?” asks Auros.

“The Grand Arena exists simultaneously here and on Eucos, so that we and our mortal champions may all attend.”

“A back door to the Citadel?” says Malissus. “You had no right.”

“That’s unnatural,” says Aeona. “It’s wrong.”

“It’s not a door,” says Elyrian. “More like… a mirror. To the mortals it is part of Eucos; to us it is part of the Citadel. That we will seem to stand together is an illusion.”

Thaeriel’s eyes flare again, and the Arena recedes, replaced by the Citadel.

“Your questions can wait,” he says. “Choose your champions, or forfeit.”

Thaeriel turns to Elyrian.

“Come. We have much to discuss.”

He spreads his wings and flies away, to some distant part of the Citadel.

Elyrian surveys the four remaining gods, his starlight eyes lingering on Aeona.

“It is good to be back,” he says, and then, in a swirl of mist, he too is gone.

Auros and Malissus lounge in one of the Citadel’s many galleries, looking out over the cosmos.

“I don’t like it,” rumbles Auros. It is night on Eucos, when warfare gives way to subterfuge and fire more readily yields to mortal will. At night he is less impetuous, more brooding.

“So you said,” replies Malissus. “Perhaps we should decline to participate.”

“But that might play right into his hands!” says Auros.

“He’s really not that deep,” says Malissus. “He may have hidden motives, but if he invited us it’s because he wants us to accept.”

“Then we should decline!” roars Auros, as pig fat drips into a thousand fires. “That will show him.”

“It was clever of him, though, to tie the contest to Eucos,” says Malissus. “If we refuse, we lose a chance for our champions to gain glory among the mortals.”

Auros grunts.

“I do like the thought of my champion knocking the sunny smile right off his champion’s face.”

“Of course you do,” says Malissus. “Maybe we should ask Ludia if—”

Aeona enters, and she is a great stag, a wild boar, the sudden fury of a summer storm. Antlers and tusks curl around her head, and she smells of blood and ozone and freshly turned earth. On Eucos, the night is thick and ominous, and people huddle close around their fires.

“Well, well,” says Malissus.

Aeona speaks, but it is the roar of a hungry bear, the howl of wind whipping the treetops, all anger and no sense.

“Always good to see your primal side,” says Auros.

“What’s troubling you?” asks Malissus.

Aeona breathes deeply. The storm subsides, though the air still crackles with pent-up anger.

“Elyrian,” she says.

Malissus moves aside, making room for Aeona between herself and Auros. Aeona sits.

“Go on,” says Malissus.

“We’ve always been close,” says Aeona. “When he focuses on real things—the magic of a dryad’s grove or a siren’s song—our domains overlap in harmony. Like yours do—or even yours and mine, Malissus.”

“But?” says Malissus.

“But he can never leave it at that!” says Aeona. “Elyrian and his philosophers debate whether motion exists, when all they need do is watch the rush of a waterfall or the bounding of a fawn. It’s maddening.”

“I know!” bellows Auros. “Makes you want to ram a spear right into their guts and ask them again if they believe in motion!”

Malissus glares at him, and he falls silent.

“He is obsessed with the idea that there’s something beyond the cosmos,” says Aeona. “I begged him to keep his attention here, on earth and sky and sea. On things that are real. I told him it was dangerous, that his prodding could unravel something vital. That perhaps the cosmos needs to remain a mystery, even to us. Maybe especially to us.”

“And?”

“Sometimes he listened. We strolled among the stars and planted sacred groves together. But more and more he didn’t. And then he was gone, vanished into his Great Chaos with barely a goodbye and no indication when he’d be back.”

“There’s nothing you could have done,” says Malissus. “It is his nature.”

“And now!” says Aeona. “Now he returns, talking more nonsense about the cosmos than ever. And who does he speak to?”

“Thaeriel,” says Malissus, and in her mouth it is an obscenity.

“Magic and Light, shining together,” says Aeona, the domains of the gods taking on strange harmonies. “I worry about the abominations they may illuminate, and the shadows they will cast.”

“You think the two of them are planning something,” says Malissus.

“That’s my fear,” says Aeona.

“We must stop them!” bellows Auros. He slams his fist on stone, and the stone cracks. Below, an earthquake rattles the desert sands of Thanakris.

“Yes,” says Malissus. “Do you think this contest is part of their plan?”

“That, or it is meant to distract us from their true plan,” says Aeona. “Maybe the contest is a ruse and the Arena is the key.”

“Enough second-guessing!” says Auros. “We will crush their trials. If they have plans beyond that, we will crush those too.”

“Then we’re agreed on this?” asks Malissus. “All three of us?”

Auros and Malissus look to Aeona. The moon hangs heavy in the sky.

“Agreed,” says Aeona, linking the three together with word and will.

Behind them, a shadow flits out of sight.

In another corner of the Citadel, far from the great windows on the cosmos, Thaeriel and Elyrian confer. It is night, when the sun hides and the stars shine. Thaeriel’s light is dimmed, his voice less resounding.

“The others don’t seem enthusiastic about this contest,” says Elyrian.

“We don’t require their enthusiasm,” says Thaeriel. “Only their compliance.”

“And what if they refuse?”

“They will not,” says Thaeriel. “They cannot allow our champions to stand before the people while they name no champions at all.”

“That makes sense,” says Elyrian. “But they are not always sensible. Auros in particular—”

“Auros is the most predictable of all,” says Thaeriel. “He speaks of chaos, yet yields to the same desires at every opportunity. He will fight, as surely as Ludia lies. Now then. The Arena.”

“It is ready,” says Elyrian. “I don’t think any of them have the understanding to deduce its true nature.”

“One does,” says Thaeriel.

“Ludia,” says Elyrian.

“Ludia,” says Thaeriel. The name is discordant, anathema to his nature.

He blazes with the full light of the sun, casting sharp shadows.

“She is here,” he says. “Show yourself, Ludia.”

Laughter drifts through the room, like the ringing of unseen chimes, as Ludia steps out from the shadow of a marble column.

The hint of a smile is visible behind her mask, but only to Elyrian. She hides her face from Thaeriel, because even she is not certain whether she can lie to him.

“Plotting without me, brothers?” she says. “You trespass in my domain.”

“Leave,” says Thaeriel. “Now.”

“‘All six gods shall travel freely throughout the Citadel,’” says Ludia. “That has always been the law.”

“Do not quote the law at me,” spits Thaeriel. “You ignore it when it does not favor you.”

“True,” says Ludia. “But you don’t.”

“What do you want, Ludia?” asks Elyrian.

“You two are hiding something,” says Ludia, “but you’re not very good at it, I’m afraid. Even our trusting little fawn Aeona can see it.”

“What of Aeona?” asks Elyrian.

“She’s furious with you,” says Ludia. “Auros and Malissus have welcomed her, and the three are united in opposition. Among other things.”

“That is not an answer,” says Thaeriel. “State your business.”

“I want to help you,” says Ludia.

Thaeriel’s eyes flare with sunlight, Elyrian’s with starlight, as they search for any sign of deceit from the God of Deception.

“Help us with what?” asks Elyrian. “Why?”

“With whatever it is you’re really trying to do,” says Ludia. “Because it is my nature, I suppose.”

“That is a lie,” says Thaeriel, and his words are as undeniable as a slab of granite. “You have ulterior motives.”

“Of course I do!” says Ludia. “That is my nature as well. But I do want to help you.”

“Truly?” asks Elyrian.

“That much is the truth,” says Thaeriel.

“Let me in on your little conspiracy,” says Ludia. “I can hide it better than you can, and the others will never suspect I’m helping you.”

“Swear that you will cooperate with our plans,” says Thaeriel. “Swear that you will tell no one, and that you will not work against us.”

“She can make no promise that we can trust,” says Elyrian.

“Swear it, Ludia,” says Thaeriel. “I will know if you are lying.”

“No, my dear,” says Ludia. “You’ll know if I’m telling the truth.”

“That which is not truth is falsehood,” says Thaeriel.

Ludia laughs.

“You poor thing. You really do believe that, don’t you?”

“Gods do not believe,” says Thaeriel. “I know. Now swear, or leave my presence.”

“Very well,” says Ludia, raising one hand in a mockery of a solemn oath. “Reveal your plan to me, and I swear not to reveal its existence nor its particulars to anyone, god or otherwise, nor to work at cross-purposes to your plans as revealed to me.”

“It is done,” says Thaeriel. With his words something settles into place, a link forged in a chain that will bind them both.

“Now then,” says Ludia. What’s this all about?”

“I learned a great deal, out in the darkness,” says Elyrian. “About the nature of this cosmos. And, more to the point, about the fate of the creations that preceded it.”

Ludia’s presence seems to grow, to fill the little room, as she inhales the heady scent of a true cosmic secret.

“Preceded…” she breathes. “Then our memories of the creation, of how all this came to be, they are… false?”

“They are accurate,” says Elyrian, “but incomplete. There are echoes, out there in the darkness. Patterns. These patterns suggest that there were… other acts of creation. Other gods, whom we do not remember.”

These words rip through the amber air of the Citadel, screaming and howling at their own unspeakable truth. Ludia shies from them. Even Thaeriel winces. In a gallery across the Citadel, the trio of gods do not notice, their attentions consumed with sealing their covenant. But across Eucos, among those beings whose minds are open to the truth—children, artists, sages, animals—a few cry out in their sleep, aware that something, somewhere is wrong.

Ludia moves her mask aside, and she is no longer smiling.

“Tell me everything.”

Kelly Digges is a narrative designer and creative consultant for games, with 90 credits across more than 50 products for Magic: The Gathering and other games. Find him on Twitter at @kellydigges.

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Story

Lysander’s Origin — Broken

Overview

The gods have agreed to a divine contest and prepared the Grand Arena. Now each god must choose a champion from among their mortal followers on Eucos. The gods choose their champions for different reasons, but the champions have one thing in common: all of them were extraordinary well before they gained a god’s attention. Today, we meet Lysander, who will become the Champion of Light.

The Story

Lysander kneels in prayer, his spear and plumed helmet beside him. His god towers above him, hard white marble inlaid with gold that shines in the morning light. Behind the statue stands the temple itself, closed to worshippers. Lysander is not the only one praying this morning, and the statue’s feet are draped in offerings of silk and surrounded by sticks of incense.

“Thaeriel,” murmurs Lysander, “whose Light is the sun. Watch over us in our darkest hour. Guide our blades and our hearts as we defend your shining city, and grant us the strength to prevail.”

He listens and waits, hoping for an answer. His mentor told him once that not all prayers are answered, and not all answers are easy to understand.

Lysander sighs and rises with a rattle of armor. Other soldiers stand around him. Even in prayer, they follow his lead.

Young Kadmos stands beside him, taller than he is. Kadmos commands his own squad now, a respected warrior in his own right. Lysander claps his son on the shoulder, and he nods.

He and his impromptu honor guard march down the great boulevard to the Bronze Gate.

The sun has only half risen, and the hills around the city are still shadowed. But he can just barely see the army that surrounds the city, their red banners snapping. The wind takes the scent of incense with it, and now he can smell the fires of war.

The Tartessians have come before. They have met the Parthene army in battle, besieged the city, even scaled the walls. But this time, something is different.

This time, they brought a monster.

Kadmos kneels in prayer, his traveling pack beside him. It is a foggy morning, and the head of the marble god before him vanishes into the mist. No one else prays at the temple this morning.

“Thaeriel, lord of Light,” says Kadmos. “I don’t know if I am doing the right thing. I never do. But this is what I have to do, and if… if it pleases you, I hope you will light my path.”

Kadmos rises and shoulders his pack. His sword is heavy at his side, and he hopes he will not need it. He wears no armor and carries no banner. He is not a soldier, not today. Just a traveler.

He turns his back to Thaeriel’s temple and walks away, past the murky bulk of the Proscenium, down the familiar boulevard. Only his footsteps ring out on the cobblestones today, and they are quickly swallowed by the fog.

The city wall is usually visible from the temple, but today he can hardly see it even from the boulevard. He calls out to the gate-guards.

One of them turns—and it is no simple guard, but his commander, a hard-hearted general named Althea.

“Kadmos,” she says, looking him up and down as though to find some fault in his civilian kit. She sighs heavily. “I still think this is a bad idea.”

When Kadmos first announced his intention to leave the city, she threatened to bar him from traveling. When he told her that in that case he’d have to desert his post and become an outlaw, she threw him in the city’s lockup for a night. In the morning, having considered her options, she agreed to grant him leave.

“I know,” says Kadmos. “And for what it’s worth, I think there’s a good chance you’re right.”

“He’s not coming back,” she says flatly. “He made that very clear.”

“I know that too,” says Kadmos. “But it’s been a year. I have to try.”

“Of course you do,” says Althea. “I’d do the same, in your place. Gods go with you, and I hope… I hope you do bring him back.”

She yells for the gate to be opened, and Kadmos steps outside the city walls and vanishes into the fog.

Lysander stands outside the city walls in his shining armor and blue-plumed helm, addressing his assembled troops.

“This will not be easy!” he bellows. “Tartessos is a grim place, without the arts and luxuries of Parthon. Its children are made in its image, dedicated to warfare in a way that we, secure behind our walls, will never be.”

The soldiers shift uncomfortably. Everyone knows tales of the Tartessians, how the children of their warrior families learn to fight before they can talk.

“You’ve probably heard by now,” says Lysander, dropping his voice so the soldiers must strain to hear, “that the Tartessian commander is terrible to behold.”

Scouts had been sent to investigate these wild stories. Only one had returned, in the early hours of the morning, raving about a daemon with four arms that stood as tall as the city wall.

“These rumors appear to be true. Whatever it is, it is not human.”

There’s murmuring at this—a break in discipline that he expected, and chooses to ignore.

“I say, let them send their monsters!” shouts Lysander, cutting through the whispers. “Let them train their children for combat! It will do them no good! Do you know why?”

The soldiers are silent now, all eyes on him.

“For the Tartessians, war is a way of life. But we go to war to protect our way of life!” he shouts. “We fight, you and I, as volunteers, so that our artists and philosophers, our children and our spouses, can live in peace and prosperity. That is what we fight for! That is why the gods are on our side! And that is why we will prevail!”

The soldiers cheer.

“General Lysander!” shouts a soldier.

“General Lysander!” the rest shout in reply.

“For Parthon!” shouts Lysander.

“For Parthon!”

Kadmos gasps for breath as he hikes a rocky, slowly ascending path surrounded by twisted fir trees. He has left the lowlands around Parthon and climbed into the wooded Thebian highlands, chasing rumors of a Parthene with golden scars. He’s been hiking for over a week, and he has never been this far into the highlands. The air seems thinner here, each breath counting for less. Only his purpose keeps him walking.

The sun is low in the sky, peeking out between the trees. He’ll need to camp for the night soon.

There are a few settlements up here, farming villages and shepherds’ camps scattered around Thebia itself. But Kadmos does not think he will find his father in a village, and certainly not in Thebia. He left because he wanted to be alone. He is far from the main roads now, into the hills where the villagers said the golden-scarred man went after he came to trade meat and furs for bronze knives and cured leather.

He’s not coming back, Althea had said. Maybe she’s right.

A growl from behind alerts him just in time. He lunges to the side and turns, fumbling for his sword, to see a huge gray wolf leaping toward him.

He dodges and rolls, coming to his feet with sword in hand. He turns slowly. The beasts surrounded him while he was lost in thought. Stupid!

Three against one, and literal wolf-pack tactics. Still, it should be easy to convince them he’s no easy prey. He wishes he had his shield to bang his sword against.

He lunges toward one wolf with a shout, but the others nip at his heels, keeping him trapped. He turns in a slow circle, trying to keep an eye on all of them at once.

“Begone, beasts!” he yells, slashing out with the sword again. “Yah!”

They’re still growling and circling. Not afraid of humans, nor of swords. Hm.

Then there’s a thump behind him, and a whimper. The two wolves he can see shrink back growling, then turn tail and lope away.

Kadmos turns to see a cloaked man bent over the fallen wolf, only a salt-and-pepper beard peeking out of his hood.

“Yelling won’t work against these beasts,” says the man, as he turns the wolf over, examining its pelt. A spear lies on the ground beside him, but Kadmos sees no blood. The man’s voice is deep and rich. “As like to draw in more of them, in fact. They only hunt humans to eliminate the competition.”

The man looks up, and his face—

“Kadmos?!” says the man, rising.

“Father!”

Lysander stands, and the two men embrace in a fierce hug, long enough to make up for the year they have lost.

Lysander shouts a battle cry as the Parthene and Tartessian lines crash together, shields interlocked. The younger soldiers’ shouts sound excited, eager for blood, but for Lysander there is only grim resolve.

Confusion reigns, as swords clang off Lysander’s shield and his own sword bites into the flesh of soldiers he barely catches a glimpse of. God, they’re all so young.

Then he sees it, rising above the chaos of battle: the daemon prince that commands the Tartessians. It is an obsidian-clad horror that towers over its troops, with a horned head and a maw full of jagged teeth. The thing carries an enormous axe, twice as long as Lysander is tall, with an axe-head the size of an ox-cart. The Tartessians shout a bloodthirsty cheer and surge forward.

The first line of Parthene soldiers reaches the beast. It swings that massive axe straight through them, but there is no blood, no body parts thrown aside.

The soldiers are just gone, their bodies and their gear crumpling and shredding, flying away like embers on the wind.

Lysander feels, more than hears, the mounting panic of his troops. They can beat the Tartessians head to head, but this is something different. They need to see this monster fall.

“To me!” he shouts, and his soldiers form up around him. He sheathes his sword and unbuckles the spear on his back. He’ll need the reach.

Spear in one hand, shield in the other, he strides out toward the monstrous Tartessian commander with a squad of Parthon’s finest at his flanks.

“Fight me!” he shouts, above the din. “Or are you too cowardly to face a champion of Parthon?”

The daemon’s monstrous head scans for him, and it breaks into a toothy grin. With one clawed hand, it waves away its honor guard and gestures for him to come forward.

“Stay here,” says Lysander to his troops. “Keep them honest, though. If they mob me, charge.”

He turns to meet the creature, but there’s a hand on his arm. He turns back. Kadmos, dear young Kadmos.

“General,” says Kadmos, bloody but apparently unhurt. “Father.”

“This is my task,” says Lysander.

“I know,” says Kadmos, his eyes shining with hope and admiration. “You can do this.”

“I’m proud of you,” says Lysander. “No matter what happens.”

Then he turns away, toward the creature. It seems bigger with every step. A hush has fallen over the battlefield, and Lysander feels as though everyone must surely be able to hear his whispered prayer.

“Thaeriel.”

What should he pray for? Protection for himself? The safety of his troops?

No. Only one thing matters.

“Guide my spear.”

He breaks into a run.

Kadmos walks beside his father, carrying his spear for him. It reminds him of when he was first training for war, when he was Lysander’s shieldbearer. Back when his father was a soldier.

Lysander walks with the wolf slung heavy over his shoulders, but even so, Kadmos struggles to keep up with him. Veins of gold ripple through the skin of Lysander’s arms, his legs—even his face, behind that ridiculous outdoorsman beard. Kadmos tries not to stare at them.

“I try not to break the skin if I can,” says Lysander. “The pelts are worth more that way. I was jumping down from a tree, so the choice was either to brain the thing or cut it nearly in half.”

Kadmos hadn’t asked about wolf pelts, and he listens to his father’s inane talk with mounting anger. Gods, maybe he really is gone.

“So you’re a hunter now?” he says, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

“Just a man trying to get by, son.” He nods. “We’re here.”

A squalid little wooden shelter sits in a clearing beside the path, hand-built but sturdy. It’s draped in pelts to keep it warm and dry, and there are several fire-pits out front with crude wooden assemblies above them. Lysander drops the wolf beside one of the fire-pits.

“I need to deal with this,” says Lysander. “It’ll take a while.”

“Sure,” says Kadmos. He leans the spear against a woodpile and sits on a log.

Lysander takes the wolf’s carcass to one side of the clearing and begins the complicated work of butchering it, whistling to himself as he does. He seems like a man unaccustomed to human company.

“Gods, it smells!” says Kadmos, gagging. “Is that normal?”

“Absolutely,” says Lysander, grinning over his shoulder. “Wolfmeat stinks like Malissus’s farts. Even bears won’t touch it. But the pelts are good for trading, and the ribs are good enough for eating if you know how to cook them.”

Kadmos says nothing.

What had he expected? To find his father still girded for war, fighting on some foreign battlefield, in need only of directions home? Absurd. He was always going to find a hunter, or a herder, or a smith.

And that is all he has found: a man who used to be a general, up to his elbows in rancid wolf-guts.

Nothing stands between Lysander and the monstrous Tartessian commander. It looms over him, fangs dripping, that enormous axe seeming to cleave the air itself.

If I fall, there will be nothing left of me.

He leaps forward, under the massive creature’s guard, but the monster kicks him with one clawed foot, sending him rolling over backwards.

He’s almost to his feet when he hears a whistling sound overhead, like the roar of the wind in the treetops. He brings his shield up just in time for the creature’s mighty axe to meet it—

—and stop dead, with a flash of light and a sound like a great bronze bell.

For a moment, he holds. The rest of the battle seems to freeze around him, soldiers on both sides faltering at the display of power in their midst.

Thaeriel, protect me.

Then a crack shoots through his shield with a sound like ice breaking. Then another. And another. Gods, if he could stand his ground by will alone!

Then the cracks begin to appear in his flesh, and he knows that he is lost.

With his free hand he flings the spear wildly. Gods know what difference that will make to a beast the size of a house, but it’s all he has left.

The cracks spread, rending him with pain that goes far deeper than the body. Is this how his soldiers will die? Ripped apart from the inside?

Then he breaks into splinters, scattered on the wind.

It is full dark, and Kadmos and Lysander sit by the fire. The ribs are decent, even if Kadmos can’t quite keep himself from thinking about how they smelled an hour ago.

“Now then, son,” says Lysander, tossing his last rib into the fire. “What’s this about?”

“It’s been long enough,” says Kadmos. “I’m here to bring you home.”

“I’m not coming back,” says Lysander. “I told you never to come looking for me.”

“No,” says Kadmos. “You told them not to. They couldn’t stop me.”

“Of course not,” says Lysander. “Probably knew it, too.”

Kadmos throws his last rib in the fire too.

“Why’d you leave?” he asks. “Why’d you leave, really?”

Lysander sags. He looks tired now, and old—far too old, older than his nearly fifty summers.

“I should have been able to stand against it,” says Lysander, staring into the fire. “I should have held. If my faith had been stronger, if I had been stronger…”

Faith.

His fists are clenched, every line of his body tense.

“I should have held.”

“I notice you haven’t got a shrine,” says Kadmos. “Unless there’s a tiny one stashed away in there.”

“No,” says Lysander. He looks away and pokes at the fire with a stick. “Wouldn’t have any use for it. Not anymore.”

“You don’t pray?” asks Kadmos. His father had always been a pious man, rising at dawn to greet Thaeriel.

“Why should I?”

“Thaeriel protected you!”

“Thaeriel should have let me die!” yells Lysander. “I failed him. Failed our city. Failed you.”

“You didn’t fail,” says Kadmos. “You lost. That’s not the same thing.”

His father stares into the fire, saying nothing.

Lysander is surrounded by light, a blinding white light that seems bright enough to bear his weight. He cannot even see his hands, his body. Gods, does he still have a body? The last thing he remembers—

“LYSANDER.”

The voice comes from all around him, from the Light—it is the Light. It speaks his name as though no one has ever truly spoken it before, as though every time before this when a parent or a friend or a lover has shouted his name it has been a mistranslation from some foreign tongue.

“YOU ARE COURAGEOUS, AND YOU ARE PIOUS. YOU HAVE DONE WELL.”

Lysander tries to speak, to protest, to ask where he is, but he has no voice. No body, no form, no self. Only the Light.

“I WILL SEND YOU BACK AGAINST FUTURE NEED.”

Then sensation returns, and it is agony, as the Light rebuilds his body from the inside out, filling every break with searing molten gold.

“THIS IS A GIFT.”

He hears another voice, his own voice, screaming into the Light.

“DO NOT SQUANDER IT.”

The gold veins in Lysander’s body gleam in the firelight, and now Kadmos can see that they are not scars, and more than skin-deep. They are cracks, filled in with gold, and they go clean through.

“They told me you were… disfigured,” says Kadmos. “But this… this is beautiful.”

Lysander snorts.

“Beautiful? This is a curse. A mark of shame.”

“It’s a blessing!” says Kadmos. “It’s a blessing that you’re alive at all.”

“That’s a curse too,” says Lysander. “Best I can do about it now... is stay out of everyone’s way.”

“What are you talking about?” says Kadmos. “You threw the first spear. You showed us that we had a chance!”

“I let you down,” says Lysander. “I let everyone down.”

“You’re right,” says Kadmos. “You did let us down.”

Lysander looks at him, and for the first time it seems to Kadmos that he is really looking, really listening.

“But not when you lost that fight,” says Kadmos. “These things happen. A lot of good, strong soldiers lost that day. Died that day. Do you think they’re failures too?”

Lysander says nothing.

“You didn’t fail us when you lost,” says Kadmos. “You failed us when you walked away.”

Lysander stirs, still dazzled by the Light. Strong hands bear him up.

“—the general. I’ve found the general! Somebody help me, he’s—”

Voices, his soldiers.

“—see his face? Gods, look at his face—”

“The creature,” rasps Lysander. His throat is hoarse from screaming. Has he been screaming?

“He’s alive!” shouts a voice. “Get the healers, the general’s—”

“What happened?” asks Lysander “Did we win?”

Finally his vision clears, and he beholds a scene of devastation. There are bodies everywhere, Parthene and Tartessian. Smoke rises from a dozen pyres.

The Bronze Gate has been torn off its hinges, the wall breached, and there are plumes of smoke within Parthon itself. And there, slumped at the feet of the statue of Thaeriel, is the monstrous enemy commander, dead. A dozen spears stick out of its body.

Lysander rises, with difficulty, waving away the strong hands that try to help him. He tests his limbs, stretches hands and arms and legs. He remembers pain, but now there is not even an ache.

He tries not to look at the golden seams that now hold his broken body together.

A healer arrives, a businesslike young woman who gestures to two of the soldiers.

“Bring him to the healer’s tent,” she says. “I need to have a look at him.”

Lysander shrugs out of their hands and follows her.

“My son,” he says. “Kadmos. Did he survive the battle?”

“Yes,” says the healer, “but barely. He’ll recover, and so will you, but I need you to lie down—”

Lysader pushes past her into the tent, past a dozen wounded young men and women, to find Kadmos in one of the beds. The young man looks pale and shrunken, half dead, and there is a blood-soaked bandage around his midsection.

“Full recovery?” he asks the healer.

“Yes,” she says, “barring infection, which we’re watching for. But he’s weak. It will take time. And you… Frankly, I don’t understand what happened to you.”

“Neither do I,” says Lysander. “Let me speak to him.”

The healer shakes her head but withdraws, to help some less intransigent patient.

Lysander takes Kadmos’s hand in his. The boy stirs, but does not waken. What is he now, twenty-three? He looks like a child again, without his armor, without his strength.

“I’m sorry,” says Lysander. “I love you.”

He finds a piece of parchment and a charcoal and scratches a simple message:

I, Lysander son of Menelos, resign my commission in the Parthene army. Do not seek me out. I will not return.

When Kadmos wakes the next morning, Lysander is already cooking fish for breakfast. Kadmos crawls out of the lean-to, which his father insisted he use instead of his bedroll.

“How’d you sleep?” asks Kadmos, rubbing grit from his eyes.

“Didn’t,” says Lysander.

“I’m sorry,” says Kadmos. “You could’ve had the shelter. You’re not young anymore, you know.”

“It was time well spent,” says Lysander. “Had a lot on my mind.”

“Oh?”

“I thought about what you said,” says Lysander. “That my failure was leaving, not losing. At the time, I felt—”

He falls silent and mutters something to himself.

“It doesn’t matter how I felt. I just… I couldn’t stand the thought of facing everyone. Whether they thought I was a failure or a hero, it wouldn’t matter. I couldn’t face them, couldn’t face Thaeriel, couldn’t face you… with shame in my heart.”

“I just want my dad back,” says Kadmos. “I miss you. There’s still a place for you there.”

Lysander hugs him fiercely.

“I’m so proud of you, son,” he says. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ever left.”

“So you’ll come back with me?”

“Won’t exactly be picking up where I left off,” says Lysander, scratching his chin. “There’ll be a lot of work to do. I don’t expect they’ll make me a general again.”

“Probably not,” says Kadmos. “Hey, maybe you’ll have to start over. Then I’d outrank you!”

They laugh together, for the first time in a very long time.

“Yes,” says Lysander. “It’s time I come back.”

“One thing, though,” says Kadmos solemnly. “The beard’ll have to go.”

“What? I like it!”

“They’re out of fashion,” says Kadmos. “No one’ll take you seriously, and the cadets won’t swoon over you anymore.”

“They won’t what?”

“Didn’t you know?” says Kadmos, smiling. “There are always a handful, every year.”

“Ought to keep the beard, then,” says Lysander. “I’m old enough to be their father.”

“I’m telling you, nobody wears one.”

“Hmph,” says Lysander. “We’ll discuss it on the way.”

“It’s a deal,” says Kadmos. “Let’s go home.”

Present day

Lysander pauses at the entrance to the temple grounds. Kadmos puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t know, son,” says Lysander. “I didn’t pray for a very long time. Not sure Thaeriel wants to hear from me.”

“It’ll be alright,” says Kadmos. “I prayed for you.”

Lysander draws a deep breath.

“Really?”

“Every day.”

“Thank you,” says Lysander, and approaches the altar under the marble gaze of his god.

How long has it been since he prayed? A year away from the city. Another two, nearly, since he returned. Some had welcomed him as a returning hero, and others had scorned him as a deserter. There was nothing for that but to do the work. He’d enrolled in the army as an officer and climbed the ranks all over again, learning new faces and new tactics and new limits. He’d done everything he expected to when he came back… except this.

He kneels before the altar, lights a stick of incense, and closes his eyes.

“Thaeriel,” he says. “Thaeriel, who is the Light. I don’t claim to understand the gift you’ve given me. Not everyone gets a second chance. But I wanted to say… thank you.”

Nothing happens, for a moment, then white-hot light presses against his eyelids. He tries to open them, but the pain is too intense. The Light.

“LYSANDER OF PARTHON.”

He has a body, this time, and the voice rings inside him.

“Thaeriel?”

“OF COURSE.”

“My lord,” says Lysander.

“YOU SAY YOU DO NOT KNOW WHY I SENT YOU BACK.”

“I have never known,” says Lysander.

“AS I SAID BEFORE: I SAVED YOU AGAINST FUTURE NEED.”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“YOU SHALL.”

An arena, gold and gleaming, takes shape around them, half-obscured by the all-consuming Light. Lysander squints, trying to get a look at it.

“I HAVE NEED OF A CHAMPION. I NAME YOU.”

“Of course,” says Lysander, his heart racing. “My life is yours.”

“IT ALWAYS HAS BEEN.”

Thaeriel himself steps out of the Light, its brightness shining through his every feature. He reaches out with one hand.

“Come with me,” says the God of Light. “There is much to do.”

Lysander reaches with one golden-veined hand, but pauses.

“Lord Thaeriel,” he says. “This time… I’d like to say goodbye.”

Thaeriel nods.

“Do not tarry,” he says. “Time is shorter than you know.”

Lysander returns to his senses, nearly losing his balance.

“Father? Are you alright? You’re… glowing.”

Lysander looks down. The golden veins in his arms are pulsing with the Light. Kadmos shades his eyes.

“Yes,” says Lysander. “I’m fine. I need to tell you something.”

The Champion of Light rises.

‍

Story

Neferu’s Origin — Blessed Rest

Overview

The gods have agreed to a divine contest and prepared the Grand Arena. Now each god must choose a champion from among their mortal followers. The champions have one thing in common: all of them were extraordinary, well before they gained a god’s attention. We have already met Lysander, Champion of Light. Today we meet Neferu, who will become the Champion of Death.

The Story

Chapter 3: Neferu’s Origin — Blessed Rest

by Kelly Digges

Neferu marches in time with her squadmates, her sandals crunching on dry soil that once belonged to her ancestors.

They’re singing a bawdy marching song about a fellow whose horses were too small for his chariot, an old favorite of Anubian soldiers. Harnakhte, a lean young man with a rich baritone from far up-river, knows more verses than Neferu has ever heard.

The column of soldiers crests a hill. The song unravels, thread by thread, as the soldiers spot their target in ones and twos. The drums still beat, feet still march in time, but the merriment is gone.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” asks Mayati, a barrel of a woman who talks sometimes about her kids back on the wheat farm.

Below them, where the desert gives way to the sea, is a sprawling harbor town whose architecture is distinctively Olympian in style.

“That’s it,” says Neferu. “The Olympians call it Munos, but its real name is Mukhnod. They took it from us after the Battle of Red Sand.”

“Here comes another history lesson,” groans young Inebni a few rows back, loud enough for her to hear.

“I’ll spare you,” says Neferu, smiling. “I’ll play tour guide instead. See up there, in the highlands above the city?”

Her squadmates crane their necks, trying to see where she’s pointing without falling out of formation.

Twin sandstone obelisks rise above the city with a narrow gap between them. From here their size is impossible to guess, but Neferu knows from old pictures that the “narrow” gap is wide enough for three people to lay down head to toe.

“Those are our monuments, and they’ve been here for a thousand years,” says Neferu. “At the summer solstice, you can stand in the city’s central plaza and watch the sun rise directly between the obelisks.”

“Why didn’t the Olympians knock ‘em down?” asks gruff Penemun, who favors simple solutions.

Neferu shrugs in time with the march.

“Wasn’t worth the effort, I suppose,” she says. “I assume they at least rubbed the carvings off. But if anybody needs proof that this is our land… look up there. We were here first.”

“Yeah, well,” says Penemun, “I don’t think the Olympians’ll see it that way.”

Neferu’s hand tightens on the handle of her sheathed sword.

“No,” she says. “I don’t expect they will.”

The two armies crash together on the plains outside the city in the shadows of those Obelisks. They’re not far from where Pharaoh Webensu II lost his army, and the coast with it, staining the sands red with blood. Neferu’s own ancestors had been among them, according to family legend. Now, at last, redemption is at hand.

“For Anubia!” shouts Neferu, echoed by the rest of the squad. “For the pharaohs!”

The Olympians fight like cowards as always, shields locked together, swords biting from between them. But the heavy chariots at the fore of the Anubian host shatter the Olympian defensive line, and Neferu and her squad pour into the breach in a roaring flood of bronze.

Neferu’s long, curved khopesh lashes out again and again, trapping a sword on its inner curve here, slicing deep into muscle there. Her small shield shifts constantly, keeping enemies guessing. She keeps moving, dancing to an unseen rhythm. To her squadmates it must seem she is everywhere at once, blocking a high strike or disemboweling an enemy before twirling away.

A few blows skid off her bronze armor, but she is moving too quickly for a solid hit to land. Her slower companions are not so untouchable. Harnakhte is first, his throat slashed, pumping blood. Neferu wonders if anyone else knows all those verses to The Charioteer’s Lament.

No. Don’t get distracted. I am Death—unknowable, unstoppable.

They’re facing the elite guard of Munos now, the best trained and the best equipped. Gods, how had that happened? They were auxiliaries, second-line troops hoping to work their way up. Had they cut that deeply into the Olympian formation? Or had the Olympians cut that far into theirs?

No. Focus. I am Death.

Mayati goes down next, a spear through her shoulder. She might recover, might yet return to her farm and her children. But Neferu can’t pause to find out. Certainly not to help. She hardly registers it except as a tactical reality.

I am Death. I will fight.

Then Inebni goes down in a spray of blood, and Neferu’s battle-trance begins to waver. Young, sweet Inebni, who always talked about “after this is over.” Gods.

Neferu and Penemun fight back to back now, the Olympians closing in around them with their horse-hair plumes and their gleaming bronze. Neferu has never liked Penemun. Far too cynical, and not a good enough soldier to make up for it. But now he is her lifeline, the wall at her back, the defense that must not falter.

I am Death. I will not surrender. I will fight forever, if I must.

“It was a good run,” says Penemun, gasping for breath.

“Shut up and fight,” says Neferu. “It’s not over!”

“Oh, I think it is,” he mumbles.

Then Penemun falls backward against her, knocking her off-balance, and she has just enough time to glimpse a shining bronze sword swinging toward her head.

I am Death.

The last thing she hears is the sound of her own skull giving way.

Neferu walks alone through the darkness. A sun shines in the sky—she feels its heat—but it is not the sun she knows. It is a pale imitation of the god of the sun. It illuminates nothing, and stars shine in the blackness that surrounds it.

Her sandals crunch on soil that is not soil. Her khopesh is heavy in her hand. How did she get here? Where is here?

None of that matters. She has to keep moving.

Something is howling in the distant dark behind her, many somethings. The howling seems to grow closer with every step she takes, but if she stops, they will catch her.

Then they are in front of her too. Daemons of every possible description rush out of ruined towers jutting from the sand and climb down enormous chains that reach into the sky. Some of them mix human and animal parts. Others are just bones jumbled together, rattling and clattering.

And all of them are trying to catch her. To devour her. She does not know how she knows this, but she is as certain of it as she has ever been of anything.

There is an oasis in the distance, a pool of glittering water. She runs toward it.

There are more of them now, and she has to cut them down in her path, to weave and dodge and duck. Their leader is a great crocodile-headed monstrosity. Sothek, Barrer of Paths, who loves life but torments the dead. Sothek laughs as he directs his monstrous children.

I am Death! I am dead.

Finally, the endless starlit sand gives way to bright, clean water. With one last push, she flings herself toward the oasis. She plunges into the cool, crystal water, tumbling down, holding her breath.

Then her feet settle on stone, and she can breathe. There is nothing here, not even stars.

A massive ogre-thing looms over her. Anhotep, Embalmer of Souls. He judges the dead, to find who is worthy of the Blessed Rest and who will be cast back out into the darkness. He shows no emotion as his massive hand reaches into her chest and pulls out her heart—her own heart, she would know it anywhere. It bleeds, but it shines.

Anhotep clutches the heart in one hand. With the other, he plucks a tail feather from a great black vulture, which squawks at the indignity. He closes his eyes as he holds his arms out—the heart in his right hand, the feather in his left.

His eyes shoot open, twin orbs of green light.

WORTHY, he says, and then the light in his eyes consumes her.

Neferu opens her eyes.

She’s lying on her back, staring up into a blue sky. Is the battle over? Did she survive?

Neferu reaches up to touch the right side of her face, expecting to find either bandages or a mass of blood and agony. But no. Her skin is unmarred, her skull intact. She has eyes, plural.

I really am dead, then.

She takes a deep breath—dry, but not too hot, and scented with flowers—and sits up, ready to face whatever trials await her.

Palm trees line a plaza of polished gray stone shot through with veins of silver. There are people in the distance, relaxing on lounges and pillows, but they are too far away to speak to, and she ignores them for now. Beyond the trees is the River, the only River, steady and wide. And all around, on every side, are monuments she has never seen before.

She is sitting on a slab of unadorned sandstone, out of place in this paradise. She stands up, trying to look in every direction at once.

The plaza is surrounded by obelisks and pyramids, statues of both human and beast, all made from different stone in different styles. There are small busts and towering steles, and there, in the distance—

“The Arch of Amenmose!” she breathes. She’s heard stories about it—a gleaming stone arch, impossible by any known principle of construction, that supposedly once spanned the entire width of the River.

She looks around, eager to share her excitement, but the people lounging in the shade of the palm trees look bored. Some of them are asleep.

A servant in plain white garb walks past her carrying a tray laden with fruit and a clay jar of wine.

“You,” she says. She tries to grab the man’s arm.

He shrugs out of her grip and keeps walking, the tray hardly wavering. She never even sees his face.

She follows the man across the plaza, over a bridge across a small artificial stream, and at last to a portico where half a dozen figures lounge on chairs. The servant kneels before one of them, who takes a few grapes.

The lounging figures are finely dressed, with regal bearing. Some of them look familiar.

“What is this place?” asks Neferu. “What are you all doing here?”

The lounging people look around at one another, until one of them deigns to speak.

“The Blessed Rest,” he says.

“Hence,” says another, an older man, “the resting.”

The Blessed Rest. The afterlife of the honored dead.

“You’re dead,” says a woman.

“I’m… I’m worthy?” says Neferu. “But I’m so young. I had so much more to do.”

“You’ll get used to it,” says the woman, looking at her for the first time. “Being dead, I mean. What’s your name? What did you do?”

“I’m Neferu. I was in the army, fighting to take Mukhnod back from the Olympians, when I… when I died. Who are you?”

“Takhat the Forgotten,” says the woman. “That’s Iusenheb IV behind me, and over there a ways, if I’m not mistaken, is Webensu II, the Hero of Mukhnod himself.”

Neferu gapes.

“These… these are pharaohs?”

The woman shrugs, rising up onto her elbows.

“Most of them,” says Takhat. “Some high priests, some great warriors, and… you, apparently.”

“What about the servants?” asks Neferu. “Who are they?”

Takhat gestures for the servant to attend Neferu. As he rises and turns, Neferu sees that he has no face, just a blank expanse of smooth brown skin. She stumbles backwards.

“They’re not anyone,” says Takhat. “Nobody but the worthy are allowed in, and it’s not as though the worthy are going to serve. These are just phantoms.”

“What about you?” asks Neferu. “What did you do, to… to be worthy?”

Takhat smiles.

“I was a pharaoh too,” she says.

“I know the Recitation of the Pharaohs,” says Neferu. “You’re not in it.”

“That would be why they call me ‘the Forgotten.’”

“How is that possible?” asks Neferu. “And why?”

Takhat rises and gestures for Neferu to walk with her, beneath the palms.

“I was the first woman pharaoh,” she says. “I know it’s normal now, but this was before Djehutmose changed the inheritance laws. No one ever thought I’d take the throne, and the priests in particular didn’t care for it.”

“How’d it happen?” asks Neferu.

“My father was Iusenheb II,” says Takhat. “One of my four brothers was supposed to succeed him, but… well, they all happened to meet unfortunate ends.”

Takhat smiles like a lioness.

“Iusenheb II had no living children,” says Neferu. “He was succeeded by his nephew, Iusenheb III.”

“Officially, yes,” says Takhat. “But my cousin was only three when my father died. I was pharaoh for fourteen years. Built my own monuments. Reformed the coinage. And then… well, then the priesthood assassinated me, defaced my statues, and retroactively declared that the high priest had been regent for my cousin the whole time.”

“But you were the pharaoh!”

“I was,” says Takhat. “History has forgotten me, but my monuments and I are here. Along with all the other dead pharaohs and all the other monuments lost to the sands.”

The monuments! These are the lost monuments of Anubia, the ones that didn’t make it. So many of them...

“We’re all here, you know,” Takhat continues. “All the pharaohs, even the forgotten. Even the monstrous. Don’t suppose you learned about them, either.”

“A few,” says Neferu. “Always at the end of a dynasty. Maakha the Cruel.”

“Ah yes,” says Takhat. “The unfortunate exceptions that prove that sometimes dynastic change is necessary, but that time is never now, because at least the pharaoh’s not literally serving the commoners for dinner. At any rate, they’re here too. Even him.”

Neferu turns slowly in a circle, taking in the languorous luxury of it all.

“What do you… do here?”

“Whatever we want,” says Takhat. “Usually when someone new arrives there’s a lot of debauchery at first. Fighting, drinking, orgies, whatever they couldn’t get enough of when they were alive. After that… well, the novelty fades. Don’t ask me what Maakha gets up to, though—I don’t want to know, and neither do you. Most of us just rest, which is the one thing nobody gets enough of when they’re alive.”

She gestures around the plaza at the resting people.

“Some take up hobbies. My grandnephew is building a scale model of the entire empire as it looked when he was alive. He started with the capital, but then he finished with that and just… kept going. All the little people move, the River flows. When the grain is ready, they harvest it with tiny scythes. It’s quite something.”

“What’s the point of that?”

Takhat shrugs.

“What’s the point of anything?”

Neferu grabs Takhat’s arm, and Takhat looks down at her hand like it’s leperous.

“I fought and died so Anubia could be free!” hisses Neferu. “Not so dead pharaohs could build sand castles and lay around in the sun!”

Takhat brushes Neferu’s hand from her arm.

“What we do here,” says Takhat coldly, “has nothing to do with what we did there.”

“That’s ridiculous,” says Neferu. “This is the point of it all, isn’t it?”

“Exactly right,” says Takhat. “This is the point of that, not the other way around. You live a good life so you can get here, and then your reward is to do… whatever you want.”

“What I want,” says Neferu, “is to keep fighting for Anubia. For my people. For our history and our future.”

“You can conjure up armies of Olympians to fight,” says Takhat, with disinterest. “Sack Parthon. Make goblets out of their skulls. Have fun.”

Neferu steps back from Takhat. Suddenly the ancient pharaoh’s skin seems too perfect, her eyes too bright. None of this is real.

“I didn’t fight the Olympians for fun,” says Neferu. “I fought to take back what was once ours. For Anubia, the real Anubia, not… not this echo.”

“We all did,” says Takhat. “I did, anyway. But once we’re here… that part’s over.”

“So you just lay here!” says Neferu.

She is shouting now, not just at Takhat but at all of them, at this whole damned afterlife full of shriveled old husks. Other exalted dead are stirring from their reverie to watch her, without much interest.

“Lounging beneath remembered monuments and chewing on the dreams of grapes! Feasts and orgies and boredom, while your people—your descendants, my fellow soldiers, me—fight and die to preserve what’s left of your legacy!”

There are a few frowns, a handful of thoughtful nods. None of them look angry, really. Why bother? What’s the point of anything? These people are ghosts.

“Shame on you!” she yells. “Shame on all of you, lying around here while the Anubia you helped build crumbles to dust! Not one of you deserves this afterlife, because anyone who deserves it couldn’t stand it here!”

None of the dead respond. Takhat at least does her the courtesy of looking guilty.

“Send me back,” says Neferu quietly.

“Excuse me?”

“Send me back!”

“You’re dead,” says Takhat. “You can’t go back. If you leave here, the only place to go is out into the dark that brought you here. And there’s no escaping that.”

“Fine,” says Neferu. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

She feels the weight of her khopesh at her hip. It wasn’t there a moment ago, but now her mind is made up.

“You’ll be devoured by Sothek and his spawn,” says Takhat. “You won’t be proving anything. Every one of us fought our way past the guardian daemons to get here, you know.”

“And all of you made it?” asks Neferu. “Not one faltered? Not one decided to turn back?”

“Not as far as I know,” says Takhat. “Not any of the pharaohs.”

“Well, that tells me all I need to know,” says Neferu. “I’m not going to spend eternity here.”

She turns, and there’s a gate at one end of the plaza now, two enormous stone doors propped open to show an all-consuming darkness beyond.

“Enjoy your pointless paradise,” says Neferu. “You deserve it.”

She turns and begins to walk toward the gate.

“Wait,” says Takhat.

Neferu keeps walking.

“Wait!”

Neferu pauses, but doesn’t turn back to the dead pharaoh.

“She’s got a point,” says Takhat, loud enough for everyone to hear.

That elicits some mumbling, among the assembled dead. But only mumbling.

“I’ll take you back,” says Takhat.

More mumbling, at this, and now Neferu does turn around.

“Take?” she asks. “Not send?”

Takhat nods.

“There are rules,” says Takhat. “They’re not easily broken. I’ll have to go with you. Probably we’ll have to fight our way back.”

“You mean you’ll go with me through the Realm of the Dead?” asks Neferu. “Give up this place and stay in the outer darkness?”

“I mean I’ll take you out of the Underworld entirely,” says Takhat. “All the way back to your body.”

“Why are you doing this?” asks Neferu.

Takhat shrugs again.

“Because you’re right,” she says. “And it’s damned boring here.”

Neferu nods, and the two women walk through the gate together, ready to brave the guardians and return to the land of the living.

Neferu draws a ragged breath and opens her eyes.

She’s lying on her back on an uneven surface, staring up into an orange sky streaked with black smoke. Something heavy rests on top of her, and everything smells like death and burning. Is the battle over? Did she survive?

Neferu frees one hand and reaches up to touch the right side of her face, wondering if she dreamed it all. The skin is unmarred, the skull intact. What…?

I fixed it, says a voice in her head. Had to, or your brain was just going to fall out again.

“Takhat?” breathes Neferu.

I’m here with you, says the voice. I am you. We are one. And we won’t be found worthy when we die again. Not after what we’ve done.

Neferu struggles to free herself. She shoves one of the heavy things off of her, and then she realizes—

Bodies. Gods, she’s in a pile of the Anubian dead. Probably so they can be burned.

Half-panicked, she pushes and shoves until she can free her other arm, then digs herself out. She’s covered in blood and dirt and worse things.

Mayati is lying there, eyes glassy, the spear still sticking out of her shoulder.

“Get up, Mayati,” says Neferu, breathing heavily.

Harnakhte is there too, his breastplate stained with dried blood, that beautiful voice of his fallen silent. Penemun is next to him, arms cradling a gaping stomach wound. They’ve been dead for hours. She was dead for hours. She was dead.

I am Death.

“Get up!” snarls Neferu.

She takes a step backward and trips over another body, tumbling to the ground. Inebni. Young Inebni, limbs bent at odd angles, face half-covered in blood, eyes staring at nothing.

“Get up and fight!” shouts Neferu, shaking Inebni’s body. “Why won’t any of you get back up?!”

Neferu weeps hot tears that fall onto Inebni’s silent body.

They’re dead, says Takhat. What you’ve done… You can’t expect it of everyone. But I can help you.

Neferu stands. There’s shouting in the distance, Olympian soldiers coming to investigate the noise she made. Neferu’s fist clenches.

“Get up,” say Neferu and Takhat together.

Pale green light pours out of Neferu’s clenched hand. The light drifts like smoke, down into the mouths of the dead—Mayati and Harnakhte and sweet Inebni and hundreds more.

As she uses Takhat’s power, Neferu feels the right side of her face twisting and tightening, taking on some horrifying aspect she cannot see.

That’s my face, says Takhat. It’s the only one I had to give. I’m afraid it’s a little past its prime.

Hundreds of eyes open, shining with pale green light. Hundreds of mouths draw ragged breaths. The Anubian dead rise to their feet, and Neferu-and-Takhat smiles.

“I am Death.”

Present day

Neferu steps into her tent, closing the flap behind her. Her troops, the living ones, are settled for the night, gathering around campfires to eat their rations, drink beer, and sing bawdy songs. The rest of her soldiers… well, they need their rest too. The priests will repair their wrappings and apply new sealant, then stow them in racks for the night. The past is a powerful weapon, and like any weapon, it must be cared for.

Neferu and Takhat are one, and Neferu does not often hear the forgotten pharaoh’s voice in her head. The mummy’s face is hidden too, except when she draws on the deepest and darkest power that Takhat once wielded.

Mukhnod is Anubian again, fallen to those who died in the initial Anubian assault. Moving inland, her army took Mokhtar, Setau, and Ankhef. Now she and her troops are marching across the sands of the Thanakris to catch the rest of the Olympian coastal colonies unawares. Neferu has stared at the map of the desert so long that she sees it when she closes her eyes, tracing the careful routes between hidden oases that her people have kept secret for centuries.

Something shifts in the darkness, and a chill overtakes her. Her hand flies to her sword hilt.

“Relax,” says a voice in the shadows. “You know who I am.”

The lamp in the tent springs to life on its own, giving off a strange greenish light, and Neferu sees a figure in the far corner. A woman, with horns.

Malissus. The Goddess of Death.

Neferu draws her khopesh.

“Lady Malissus,” says Neferu. “I’ve been wondering when you would pay me a visit.”

“Mmm,” says Malissus. “Not a lot of souls have done what you two did, you know. Giving up the Blessed Rest. Clawing your way back to the world of the living. It’s impressive, I’ll grant you that.”

“But now you’re here to collect,” says Neferu. “Well, I’m not going back without a fight.”

Malissus laughs, a silvery, delighted laugh that reminds Neferu of funerary bells. Neferu’s hand goes numb, and her khopesh drops to the ground with a clunk.

“It wouldn’t be a fight, dear child,” says Malissus. “But I don’t want to return you to the Realm of the Dead, either of you. On the contrary, I applaud your dedication.”

“Then why are you here?” asks Neferu-Takhat.

Malissus smiles wide.

“I need a champion,” she says. “A mortal to represent me among the gods.”

“You’re offering me the job?” asks Neferu.

“Indeed,” says Malissus, smiling even wider. “You see, you did break the rules. Keeping souls in the Underworld is my domain. My nature. I can’t have anyone escaping, not even for good reasons. Not even if I agree with them.”

Neferu is still in fighting stance, even without her khopesh. Of course Malissus can snuff her in an instant. But that doesn’t matter.

I am Death. I will fight.

“But if you were my champion...” says Malissus, “then the rules would not apply. You see?”

“So you’re not really giving me a choice.”

“Quite the opposite,” says Malissus. “I’m giving the two of you a choice no other escaped soul has ever had. Return with me to the Underworld for a notably less luxurious eternity—or, wield my power with my full support, in pursuit of both your goals and mine.”

Malissus holds out one hand.

Neferu takes it, and green fire burns through her body.

“You are my champion,” says Malissus.

Neferu-Takhat smiles, and the right side of her face twists, for a moment, into a mummy’s grin.

“I am Death,” she says, and knows that it is true.

Kelly Digges is a narrative designer and creative consultant for games, with 90 credits across more than 50 products for Magic: The Gathering and other games. Find him on Twitter at @kellydigges.

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Story

Pallas’ Origin — All Is Magic

Overview

The gods have agreed to a divine contest and prepared the Grand Arena. Now each god must choose a champion from among their mortal followers. The champions have one thing in common: all of them were extraordinary, well before they gained a god’s attention. We have already met the Champion of Light and Death. Today we meet Pallas, who will become the Champion of Magic.

The Story

Chapter 4: Pallas’ Origin — All Is Magic

by Kelly Digges (with contributions by Andrea Davis)

Pallas stands beneath the ancient statue of Elyrian, looking up at it in wonder. They always pause beneath that statue, just for a moment, to remember why they’re here.

Students stream around them, jostling and pushing, all on their own paths through the Academy’s central plaza. This week is Evaluation, when students who have reached the end of the standard curriculum make their argument for continued sponsorship in one of the school’s departments, and many of the other students have a glassy-eyed look.

Pallas stands alone, clutching a large scroll case. At the base of the statue is an inscription that reads ALL IS MAGIC. The Academy of Mystic Arts teaches many subjects, only some of them magical. But the philosophers teach that all things spring from magic.

A hundred years ago this place was a temple, where pilgrims came to worship at the statue of Elyrian and consult the oracles. Now, like Pallas, they come to learn. Pallas is not the first to note that the statue is still a place of prayer: students rushing by pray to get to their lessons on time, to get good marks, to get the best teachers and placements.

“Hey!” says a voice behind them.

Pallas turns, smiling, to see their friend Demetrios running up.

Demetrios pushes through the throng and claps a hand on Pallas’ shoulder.

“What’s that?” he asks, nodding to the scroll case. “You can’t bring notes into the Evaluation.”

“It’s not notes,” says Pallas, still smiling. “Call it... supplementary material.”

Demetrios sighs theatrically.

“You are impossible.”

“So I keep hearing,” says Pallas. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.”

Three years ago

“The bowl in front of you,” says Sophist Valerius, “contains ordinary water at room temperature.”

Pallas looks down at their ceramic bowl, half-listening to the sophist and ignoring the other students.

“From this water, create ice,” says the sophist, a lean man from the west with a dark, oiled beard. “Make sure the bowl remains intact. Begin.”

Around them, Pallas hears the mutterings of familiar spells. There are a few different approaches, of course. Behind them someone sets up a simple heat pump, one of the cornerstones of Applied Philosophy, which will work fine as long as she remembers not to set anything on fire with the heat she’s displacing. The student next to Pallas sounds like he’s working on some kind of friction manipulation, which--

--the student swears as his bowl shatters. Pallas shakes their head. Clever, but far too imprecise.

Some students start moving heat from the very bottom of the bowl, but the more careful ones start a few inches up, letting the ball of ice grow into the shape of the bowl. A few more bowls around the room fall to pieces.

Heat pumps. Hm. Hadn’t they learned heat pumps last year? That’s hardly demonstrating mastery of the mystic arts.

Pallas smiles.

Carefully, they cast their awareness into the water, feeling out the miniscule bonds between particles that secure its form. Matter is energy given form, and magic is a form of energy...

Pallas dissolves the bonds, careful to contain the energy they release. Other students turn to look as the water in Pallas’ bowl seems to evaporate, replaced with a swirling blob of purple-blue light.

There. Raw magic. And since magic is energy, and energy is matter...

Pallas concentrates, re-linking the tiny atoms in their diverse forms. This time the links are crystalline, unyielding--not the elastic bonds of water, but the rigid bonds of ice. These bonds hold less energy, so Pallas has extra. They sculpt the ice into a pleasing shape as it forms. A self-portrait would be a little much, so instead they craft an exquisite blossom of ice.

The glow fades, and Pallas looks to Valerius, but the sophist’s face is red. He walks quickly to Pallas’ table.

“What in the realms was that?” he spits. “Did you just transmute water into ice?”

“From the water, I created ice,” says Pallas innocently. “Isn’t that what I was supposed to do?”

“You were supposed to freeze it,” hisses Valerius. “Transmutation isn’t even Applied Philosophy!”

“What’s the point of that?” asks Pallas. “We learned how to do that last year. It’s boring.”

“I want to evaluate your technique,” says the sophist. “Your control. Your discipline, which clearly you have none of.”

“If you wanted me to freeze it, you should have just said so,” says Pallas.

“Class dismissed!” shouts Valerius, although they are only halfway through their allotted time. The other students eagerly pack their things and leave, but Valerius grabs Pallas’ wrist.

“Not you,” he says. “You and I will be speaking with the Grand Sophist about your attitude. Again.”

“As you wish, Sophist Valerius,” says Pallas.

On the way out of the room, Pallas pumps a bit of magic into the ice flower. It melts instantly, leaving a bowl of ordinary water.

“Here they come,” says Demetrios.

The Head Sophists of the Academy know how to make an entrance--even their harshest critics must grant them that. They’re dressed in academic finery, each with their own honors and cultural flourishes, and the mass of students pushes to either side of the hall to watch the spectacle.

The Grand Sophist comes first, a stern old woman with a bent back and a simple black robe. She uses the scepter of her office as a walking stick. Newcomers to the Academy often underestimate her. Few do so twice.

Behind her come the rest of them, the greatest thinkers and mages from all over the world. So they say, anyway. There is Sennuwy, the Head Sophist of Artistry, a white-haired Anubian of regal bearing. She has made it quite clear that she would be delighted to sponsor Pallas’ ongoing education in her department, which encompasses both magical fabrication and more mundane arts. Behind her is Valerius, now promoted to Head Sophist of Applied Philosophy. He’s the youngest of the bunch at a hair under fifty, and has made it equally clear that he would be delighted to see Pallas expelled.

“Ohh, Leucothia looks grumpy today,” whispers Demetrios, of the notoriously fickle Head Sophist of Thaumatics. “Glad I’m not going up against her.”

Demetrios looks sidelong at Pallas, searching for any hint of a reaction. He wrinkles his nose.

“C’mon,” says Demetrios. “You’ve heard my whole presentation--”

“Twice,” says Pallas.

“--At least give me a hint what department you’re trying for. Is it Artistry?”

“No,” says Pallas. “And to save you some time, I’m going to say no to all of them.”

“Just to be difficult,” says Demetrios.

“No,” says Pallas with a smile. “Not just that.”

The last of the Head Sophists file into the audience chamber. The assembled students shake themselves from their stupor and resume their various rituals, preparations, and nervous habits.

Pallas sets the scroll case next to a bench and sits down next to it. After watching Demetrios for a few minutes, they pat the bench on their other side.

“Come on,” says Pallas. “Sit with me.”

“I’m fine standing,” says Demetrios.

“You’re not standing, you’re pacing,” says Pallas. “Sit.”

Demetrios smiles sheepishly and sits. Pallas puts a steadying hand on his back.

“You’re really nervous about this,” says Pallas. “For the last month all you could talk about it is wanting to get it over with.”

“Yeah, well,” says Demetrios. “It’s not over with, is it?”

“Fair point. But soon.”

“Yeah,” says Demetrios. “I guess so.”

“You know you’re ready,” says Pallas. “What’s getting to you?”

“I have to get into Artistry,” says Demetrios. “I want to study with the masters. I want to write something that will last forever. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“And here you are,” says Pallas gently. “On the threshold. You’re ready.”

“Right,” says Demetrios. “But I have to win over nine old windbags before I can do it.”

“No,” says Pallas, with enough venom in their voice that Demetrios shies back.

“Sorry,” says Pallas. “Just… Listen. Our esteemed windbags get to decide whether you do one thing: study here, with them, at this Academy.”

“But that’s everything,” says Demetrios.

“No,” says Pallas again. “That’s one thing. I’ve read your plays. I’ve seen them performed. They’re really good. I… I never told you this, but after I saw The Excavation... I snuck into an empty audience chamber and cried for half an hour.”

“You did?”

“Like a child,” says Pallas. “It’s a beautiful story. To be a ghost, trapped between past and present, belonging nowhere… It hit me really hard.”

“That’s wonderful!” says Demetrios. “I mean, contextually.”

“Here’s my point,” says Pallas. “If the wind in those bags blows the wrong way today, that only tells you something about them. It doesn’t change anything about you. You’ll still have your plays, the mind that made them, the tears I wept for Kephissa as she stood alone in the ruins. They’ll see it or they won’t, but you’ll have it no matter what.”

Demetrios nods slowly and blinks, as though there’s something in his eye.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Demetrios’s grips Pallas’ arm.

“Demetrios of Hellekon,” calls the bailiff.

Demetrios grins.

“Thanks,” he says, and walks toward the door.

Seven years ago

Pallas steps onto the campus of the Academy of Mystic Arts for the first time, head held high, trying not to gawk.

There are students walking in every direction, messenger sprites buzzing from place to place, and great stone buildings in half a dozen styles.

The statue of Elyrian looms over the central plaza, and Pallas stops and stares at it in wonder. So much for not gawking. Pallas isn’t even sure why it’s so arresting--it’s just a statue. Carved stone, a bit of moss allowed to grow where it makes it look dignified rather than neglected. Then they realize--the eyes. The eyes are some kind of gemstone, and they glitter.

“Excuse me,” says a voice behind them. Pallas turns.

A small gaggle of fellow first-years has gathered around Pallas. A tall boy with wiry hair and freckles steps to the front.

“We were wondering,” says the boy. “What… are you?”

Pallas examines their own hands.

“Human, as far as I know.”

The boy has the decency to blush at that, and the laughter from the others seems to come at both his expense and Pallas’.

“Yes, but… what kind?” asks the boy.

“A student, like yourself,” says Pallas. “A mage, hopefully.”

The boy is red as a sunburn now.

“…Are you a boy or a girl?” he mumbles.

“Ah,” says Pallas. “I am Pallas.”

Pallas sticks out a hand.

The boy looks panicked for a moment, then takes a deep breath. The other students watch him carefully.

He grabs Pallas’ hand and shakes it.

“Demetrios,” he says. “Demetrios of Hellekon.”

“Just Pallas.”

The other students follow Demetrios’s lead, gathering around to introduce themselves.

“Uh, sorry,” says Demetrios a few minutes later, as he and Pallas walk toward Registration. “I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

“Do you know what Iphigenia said about forgiveness?” asks Pallas.

Demetrios shakes his head.

“A noble soul forgives a thousand times,” quotes Pallas. “A wise soul forgives only once.”

Demetrios blinks.

“Oohhhh, I like that,” he says. “Which volume is this in?”

“The Dialogues,” says Pallas. “There’s a whole section on it. She says the best way is to forgive someone once, then do as they do after that.”

“Smart,” says Demetrios. “Hey, want to get dinner with the rest of us after Registration? Weret found an ‘authentic’ Anubian restaurant in town, and she’s dying to see if it remotely resembles Anubian food.”

“That sounds good,” says Pallas. “Very good.”

Pallas tucks the last few bites of a chickpea gyro into their mouth. Very advantageous, knowing exactly how long Demetrios’s presentation would be. Pallas even shaved off a tenth of an hour to account for nerves. Demetrios always talks too fast when he’s nervous.

By the time the door opens, Pallas is refreshed and ready.

Demetrios emerges, wearing a grin that seems to escape the bounds of his face.

“I got in!” he says, as quietly as he can manage.

Pallas hugs him tight.

“Congratulations,” they say.

“Good luck,” says Demetrios. “I really hope you’re not going for Thaumatics, though. She is in a mood.”

“Pallas,” says the bailiff. Just Pallas.

“I’ll be fine.”

Pallas adjusts their grip on the scroll case, takes a deep breath, and walks into the Amphitheater. They walk to the center of the stage, set down the scroll case, and stand.

The Head Sophists are arrayed around the stage, staring down at Pallas from the third row of benches. Pallas can already hear Applied Philosophy and Thaumatics muttering about the scroll case. Good.

“The Head Sophists call Pallas for Evaluation,” says the Grand Sophist formally. A pen scratches somewhere off to the side as a scribe records the proceedings.

Pallas bows, deeply but with a flourish. Out of the corner of their eye they see someone leaning against the wall of the chamber, an unfamiliar figure clad in simple robes. Odd. Pallas wishes Demetrios had thought to mention them, whoever they are.

“I come before you to present my continuing education proposal for evaluation.”

“Get on with it,” grumbles Thaumatics, just barely audible, even though Pallas is only going through the proper forms.

“My esteemed instructors,” begins Pallas, and pauses. Deep breath.

“Overdramatic,” mutters someone. Pallas cannot deny a certain affinity for the extravagant, but this particular pause is not for effect. This is genuinely nerve-wracking.

“I wish to pursue a course of independent study--”

Several Head Sophists begin to speak at once, but Pallas continues.

“--consulting with the Head Sophists as appropriate and subject to their joint approval in their various fields.”

“There is no such course,” says the Grand Sophist, cutting through the chatter.

“I realize that,” says Pallas, with a bow that they hope looks deferential and apologetic. “That’s why I’ve taken the liberty of creating one.”

Pallas bends down, opens the scroll case, and presents a thin roll of parchment. The Grand Sophist gestures for the bailiff to take it as the other Head Sophists all begin to talk at once.

“—fascinating idea—“

“—certainly hope you didn’t waste any of the Academy’s parchment on that—”

“—should at least read it before we—”

“—practically asking us to make them a Head Sophist in their own right--”

“—but if anyone can do it—”

Pallas lets it all wash over them. Half a year ago they’d brainstormed every possible argument and counterargument they could think of, and all of these were on the list.

“Order!” calls the Grand Sophist. She bangs her scepter on the stone floor, and a clap of thunder reverberates through the audience chamber. The other Head Sophists lapse into stunned silence.

The Grand Sophist holds out a hand, and the bailiff hands her Pallas’ scroll.

“The board will consider the matter,” she says.

“Should I remain on hand to defend my proposal?” asks Pallas.

“I think you’ve done enough damage for one day,” says the Grand Sophist. “Go get some rest. Gods know I’m not going to.”

“May the gods watch over your deliberations,” says Pallas, and sweeps out of the chamber.

Nine years ago

“Pallas,” says Elder Thalestris. “Thank you for coming.”

Pallas enters the tent and kneels before the four elders of the mage’s commune. Pallas has lived here their whole life, and spoken with the elders many times, but this is only their second or third time being called before the elders formally.

“Thank you, Elder,” says Pallas quietly. “May I ask what this is about?”

“This will be your tenth summer, won’t it?” asks Elder Lambaros. “But you have yet to request an apprenticeship.”

Pallas sniffs. They have heard enough about this from their parents already.

“Eleventh, sir,” says Pallas. “And yes, that’s correct.”

“Why is that, Pallas?” asks Elder Thalestris. She has always been the nicest of the elders.

Pallas shrugs, their own shoulders feeling bony and disconnected under their robe.

“No one seems to teach what I want to learn,” says Pallas. Ugh. That sounds petulant, like they expect the whole commune to bend to their whims. “What I mean is, I haven’t found a good fit yet for the kind of magic I seem to be good at.”

The elders all nod at this. Pallas is different. It’s practically a saying around the commune. The sky is blue (sometimes), water is wet (when it’s a liquid), and Pallas is different (except in all the ways that Pallas is like any other child, which everyone seems to ignore).

“Your magic has always been different,” says Elder Tegyrius, stroking his long white beard. “Powerful, but difficult to classify. “Frankly, Pallas… We’re not quite sure what to do with you ourselves.”

“As much as it pains us to admit it,” says Elder Lambaros, “we’ve concluded that there is no mage here who can teach you what you need to know.”

Pallas’ heart rate spikes, their pulse pounding in their ears.

“What… what’s to become of me, then?”

Elder Procris speaks for the first time. The eldest of the four, she has a raspy voice that Pallas must lean forward to hear.

“We have sponsored your entry into the Academy of Mystic Arts,” whispers Elder Procris. “It is they, not we, who must instruct you.”

The Academy! A thousand thoughts swirl at once. Prestige. Pressure. Distance. Learning. Failure. Isolation. Books! A thousand thousand books, if the legends are to be believed. But it is so, so far away.

“Thank you,” says Pallas. “I am honored. But… Am I allowed to stay here with my family, if I choose?” Not go to the Academy? It sounds absurd. But Pallas needs to know whether this is a choice or an ultimatum.

“You’re always welcome here,” says Elder Thalestris. “Always.”

“But,” says Elder Lambaros, “there would be no further magic lessons. Not from anyone here, not even your parents.”

“Why not?” blurts Pallas.

“Because magic is dangerous,” says Elder Tegyrius. “Magic that we don’t understand, even moreso. If we don’t even know what you’re doing, we cannot in good conscience continue to teach you. The more you learn, the worse it will be when something goes wrong.”

Pallas takes a deep breath, staring at the patterns in the rug. Then they stand and bow.

“Thank you, Elders,” says Pallas, voice shaking. “It truly is an honor, and I will gladly accept your offer of sponsorship at the Academy.”

“A wise decision,” says Elder Lambaros.

Pallas is shaking now. They catch Elder Thalestris’s eye.

“Go, child,” says Elder Thalestris. “You’ve a lot to think about.”

Pallas turns and all but runs from the tent.

In the purple-blue glow of flickering magelights, Pallas reads the same page for the third time in a row, then leans back in their chair and sighs. They ought to be in bed, but they’re too wound up.

Pallas had expected to cause trouble, of course. They’d just told nine aging dispensaries of outdated wisdom to upend their own authority and ignore how they’d arbitrarily sorted that knowledge into buckets for centuries. But no ruling, yes or no, even at the end of the day?

Telling Demetrios about it had been gratifying, at least. Now he’s off with his Artistry friends celebrating. Well deserved, but not the kind of distraction Pallas needs. They resume reading, without much enthusiasm.

“Well, you certainly have a gift,” says a voice. Pallas hadn’t heard anyone walk up, but the voice is just a few feet away.

“Mm,” says Pallas, not looking up. “So I’ve been told. Quite the magical prodigy.”

“That you are,” says the stranger. “But I meant your gift for, ah, challenging assumptions.”

Someone sits down across from them, and Pallas realizes that it’s the person who was off to one side of the chamber earlier. Interesting. The stranger is unremarkable in look and dress, but there’s something about them Pallas can’t quite place. Something calm and boundless.

“What do you mean?”

“Most people build walls between categories,” says the stranger. “Divide things into groups that they can compress and generalize about, from animals to elements to academics. Yes?”

“Yes,” says Pallas sullenly.

“You have a unity of vision,” the stranger continues. “It’s a very rare gift, in my experience. And when you demonstrate to people that the binaries they cherish—up or down, wet or dry—are really matters of perspective and degree… Well, you’d think they’d be thankful for the insight. But they never are. Are they?”

Pallas stares at the stranger, who stares back.

“Who are you?” asks Pallas.

“Who are you?” asks the stranger.

“Oh, no no no,” says Pallas. “I’m not falling for answering questions with questions. Are you a sophist? Why haven’t I seen you before?”

“Haven’t you?” asks the stranger.

Then he--and now Pallas is sure that it is he--seems to grow bigger and more distant at once, even as he sits in front of Pallas. His face takes on a stony aspect.

“All Is Magic,” intones the statue.

“Elyrian!” says Pallas, stumbling to their feet.

Then Elyrian is just a man again, holding up a calming hand.

“Shhhh,” says the God of Magic, eyes literally twinkling. “Don’t tell anyone, or they’ll want me to teach a class.”

Pallas blinks, then bursts out laughing.

“To… to what do I owe this blessing, Lord Elyrian?” they say at last. Then their eyes narrow. “Am I dead? I’m not dead, am I?”

“No,” says Elyrian. “That would be my sister’s domain. Even if you died in a library.”

“Then... what?”

“There is to be a contest among the gods,” says Elyrian. “I require a mortal champion. I believe you may be up to the task.”

“May be? Were you watching all the Evaluations?”

“No,” says Elyrian. “I do not need a sculptor or a poet. I came to watch you. And while that was an impressive display of confidence, it was not the spectacle I’d hoped for. I need to see your magic in action.”

“Ah,” says Pallas, standing. “I’m ready. Just let me, ah, reshelve this first--”

Elyrian waves a hand, and the book on the table vanishes.

“Reshelved,” he says. “Properly, of course.”

Then the God of Magic pauses, and his eyes fill with stars as he seems to look through the nearby stacks.

“Someone,” he says distantly, “has organized the biographies by author instead of subject.”

“I know,” growls Pallas. “Isn’t it awful? They’re all out of order. We have two different annotations of The Life of Ptelemon the Elder, and they’re practically on opposite ends of the library! I’ve petitioned to have it reorganized, but there’s this insufferable librarian who insists—”

“So fix it,” says Elyrian.

“Excuse me?”

Elyrian nods, chuckling to himself.

“Yes. Fix it.”

“Uhhh,” says Pallas. “Even if you waved a hand and turned my bibliographic nemesis into a cactus, that would take… days at least, if I had the full staff to help me. Months, if I had to do it on my own.”

“You have one hour,” says Elyrian. “Starting now.”

An hourglass appears on the table, and glowing grains of sand begin to fall like stars.

“What?!”

“You’d better get started,” says Elyrian.

“Are there rules?” asks Pallas.

“None,” says Elyrian. “Reorganize that section of the library to your own satisfaction in one hour using any and all available means. That is the test.”

“So I could decide I’m happy with it as it is?”

“You could claim to be,” says Elyrian. “But you’d be lying. One hour, Pallas.”

Thirteen years ago

Pallas sits in a glade at the edge of the mage’s commune, watching everything move. The babble of the brook as it tumbles over rocks. The silent crawl of the silt it carries with it. The darting of a minnow from the shadow of a bird overheard.

The wind rustles the leaves of the trees, oak and elm and ash, and the needles of a few hardy firs. Sunlight dances between the leaves and glints off the ever-moving water, the minnow, the rocks. An unfortunate fly quivers in the web of an unseen spider.

Everything is moving. It’s all so alive! No moment is the same, no object untouched by the motions of the things around it. The light spills down like the waters of the brook, and the trees drink it up just as eagerly. Even the quiet deceit of the minnow hiding from the bird, the life-and-death struggle of the spider and the fly, have a role to play.

In that moment it all seems like one thing, one great stirring movement rippling through everything, energy and motion passing from one thing to another in a haze of life and light…

“Pallas!” yells their mother, from the commune. “Pallas, lessons!”

Pallas blinks, and the moment passes. But the feeling remains, and Pallas holds it close, to carry with them always.

Pallas paces, one shelf away from the hourglass and its relentless dwindling sand.

“Time magic? No, there’s no way I could keep a relativity field stable for that long. Besides, I don’t want to spend months doing this, not even if I can fit those months in an hour. Acceleration, same problem, plus I’d set the library on fire with the friction.”

Step. Step. Step.

“Telekinesis, teleportation, portals...” says Pallas. “But moving the books isn’t the problem! That’s the easy part! It’s sorting them that’s giving me headaches. I need something with a mind, something that can follow orders. Summon some nethers? Too mischievous. Aethers? Maybe, but they don’t take kindly to idle tasks. Hmmm.”

“I notice a distinct lack of spellcasting,” says Elyrian, from right behind Pallas. Now that is an obnoxious habit.

“Hush,” says Pallas, turning around. “I’m thinking.”

“If this were a test of your ability to think, you’d already have passed it,” says Elyrian.

“Every test,” says Pallas, “is a test of one’s ability to think. Now, my lord, Shining Elyrian, God of Magic, etcetera… stop bothering me while I’m trying to think.”

Elyrian nods and vanishes.

“Start over,” says Pallas. “First principles. I want the books to be in a certain order. I don’t know the order, in the sense that I couldn’t rattle it off right now. But if I had a complete list of books and a lot of time I could make that order, because I know how I want the ordering to happen.”

Step. Step. Step.

“I’m not bringing about the end state, then,” says Pallas, “because I don’t know it. If I knew the end state, I could make it happen right now. What I actually know is… a process. An algorithm.”

Step. Step. Step.

“And I could teach that algorithm, but I don’t have anything to teach it to. I want that order, but nothing else does, and I’m running out of time, and the books just want to sit there, because they’re books--”

Pallas blinks.

“The books just want to sit there,” they repeat. “Objects at rest and all that. Iphigenia teaches us that motion is the result of will, and will is the result of consciousness, and the gods willed movement at the beginning of time, and everything that moves does so ultimately because of those six prime movers… except mortals. People. We move under our own will.”

They clap their hands.

“People!” they shout. “Books don’t want anything, but people do, and if I can make them remember…”

Pallas closes their eyes.

“Oh, this is going to be complicated. Algorithmatics, to encode the sorting. Telekinetics, that’s self-explanatory. And for the minds, the will, I’ll need… infomancy, telepathy, and juuuuust a dash of necromancy.”

The Academy disallows necromancy, but presumably the God of Magic is more open-minded.

Five magical disciplines to braid together into a single spell. More than ten thousand targets, all fragile and valuable, spread across a massive room. One last deep breath.

Pallas holds out a hand, and their wand appears in it. They speak two words, and the spell begins, reaching out to the books and the scrolls and the unbound sheets. Magelights flash and flare around Pallas, drawn to the energy.

Elyrian appears beside Pallas, one eyebrow raised. For a moment, nothing happens.

Then there’s a rustling of pages a few shelves over, and more, and more, and suddenly there are books soaring through the library like birds, scrolls slithering like snakes across the floor and along the shelves, and looseleaf sheets of vellum and parchment flittering like butterflies, all lit by the gentle glow of Pallas’ magic.

For a few moments, the library is a fantastical bibliographic menagerie. Pallas stands, arms extended, watching it all in wonder.

There’s a bit of jostling at the end, as the last volumes fight for space and shove their fellows to adjacent shelves. Pallas has to gently break up a fight between two apparently identical biographies of Xenogon. But that is the end of it. The spell fades, and there is quiet in the library once more. The whole thing takes perhaps a tenth of an hour.

Elyrian looks at Pallas.

“I am immortal, from the time before time,” says the God of Magic. “I have seen things you could not perceive nor comprehend nor imagine. But I have never witnessed anything quite like that.”

Pallas takes a deep bow.

“You saw what I did, I assume?”

“I can see the warp and weave of Magic itself,” says Elyrian. “I saw what you did. I am curious as to why.”

“I knew what I wanted,” says Pallas. “But because what I wanted was a process instead of an end state, I couldn’t just impose it on the universe by brute force, the way simple magic works. That issue, process versus product, was the heart of the problem.”

“Obviously,” says Elyrian. “Algorithmatics, to assert the process. Telekinetics, to enact it. This is straightforward. Indeed, it’s all that’s required. Why the other disciplines?”

“Simple,” says Pallas. “There are over twelve thousand volumes in the bibliography section. The sorting I wanted is a fairly simple algorithmatic, but that’s a lot of information for one spell to process, and there are limits--well, you know the formulas, obviously. I didn’t actually do all the math, but I did enough to work out that it would definitely take longer than an hour.

“That’s why I spent so much time thinking. The ‘straightforward’ solution was a trap. Even if I’d started it running right when you said go, I’d have realized about half an hour later that it wasn’t going to be done in time. I’d have failed.”

Elyrian smiles.

“Correct,” he says. “Go on.”

“If I didn’t have enough time for an algorithmatic to sort the books,” says Pallas, “then I needed the books to sort themselves. So. Infomancy, to create a model of the information in each book. Telepathy, to imprint the algorithmatic on that model. But I still needed a source of will. I needed the books to want to sort themselves.”

“And you decided on necromancy?”

“Biographies,” says Pallas with a smile. “You told me to sort the biographies. If it had been literature or geometry or everything together, I’d have had to think of something else. But it was the biographies. I needed the biographies, and only the biographies, to develop a sense of will, while all the other books stayed where they were.

“Every biography has a connection, however tenuous, to the person who inspired it, and almost all those people are dead, so I… haunted the books. A little. Imbued them with the memory of a ghost, that’s all. Just enough to make them want things, so the rest of my spell could tell them what to want.”

“Impressive,” says Elyrian.

“Was that the right answer?” asks Pallas.

“Oh, I had no idea how you were going to do it,” says the God of Magic. “It’s not a case of right or wrong. Like most things outside of academia, the important thing is whether it works or doesn’t work. Your way worked. You pass.”

Pallas bows again.

“I feel silly asking this, under the circumstances, but what about my Evaluation?”

“The Head Sophists will no doubt take their time rendering a verdict. Your absence will be accounted for. Whatever they decide, it will be waiting for you when you return. If you return.”

“Ominous,” says Pallas.

“Attend, my champion,” says Elyrian. “We have a great deal to discuss.”

The God of Magic reaches out a hand. Pallas takes it, and they leave the library behind.

Kelly Digges is a narrative designer and creative consultant for games, with 90 credits across more than 50 products for Magic: The Gathering and other games. Find him on Twitter at @kellydigges.

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Story

Selena’s Origin - Truth Is Told by Moonlight

Overview

Hello, fellow mortals, it’s Lead Game Designer, Andrea Davis, providing the introduction this time around. As we’ve shown throughout the story so far, the gods have agreed to a divine contest and prepared the Grand Arena. They’ve chosen champions from among their mortal followers. Each has brought forward an aspect of their god’s domain in an unexpected fashion -- you can read about Lysander’s reformation, Neferu’s defiance, Pallas’ nerve, and Orfeo’s resolve. Today’s story is near and dear to my heart. To be clear: Kelly did the lion’s share of the work to help bring Selena to life. But, together, we made a character that knows herself, and those that oppose her. Selena’s insight is … well, I shouldn't spoil. Enjoy Chapter 6 in the Trial of the Gods story.

The Story

Today’s story is near and dear to my heart. To be clear: Kelly did the lion’s share of the work to help bring Selena to life. But, together, we made a character that knows herself, and those that oppose her. Selena’s insight is … well, I shouldn't spoil. Enjoy Chapter 6 in the Trial of the Gods story.

by Kelly Digges and Andrea Davis

Sixteen years ago

A child lies in bed, listening to the shouts of the soldiers-in-training outside the window as they drill with spears. The child can’t see them from the bed, propped up on a mound of pillows. All she can see is the ceiling, as the sunlight through the window crawls across it.

There’s a pile of scrolls by the bed, but reading on her back is exhausting, and the scrolls are not very interesting. Having spent most of the last three months just laying there and listening, the child has stayed busy memorizing every single order given on that field. When the time comes, she’ll be ready.

The beads in the doorway clatter, and someone enters—no, two people. Mother, and someone with a heavier tread. A season in bed has made her adept at telling people apart by their footsteps. The child has many little talents like this, and thinks of them as “cursed skills”—the small things she can only do because her body will not cooperate when she tries to do things other people do.

“Sweetie,” says Mother. “Are you awake?”

The child rises to her elbows and tries to say hello, but the words stick in her throat, and only coughing comes out.

“Please, don’t get up,” says the other voice, gruff but kind. That’s Abderos, one of the healers. “How are we doing today, lad?”

The man looms, smiling. With his white beard and his ample belly, he’s about the furthest thing from intimidating that one can imagine.

“About the same,” says the child quietly.

Abderos purses his lips and nods gravely.

“And you’ve been taking your tinctures and doing your exercises?”

The child nods. The exercises are boring and the tinctures taste terrible, but the child never complains. She will get better. She has to.

“Let’s have a look at you, then,” says Abderos.

Mother holds the child’s hand through the poking and prodding. Abderos asks the child to push each leg against his hands as hard as possible, blow on a feather, all the little tests to see if ravaged muscles are finally recovering.

With Mother’s help, the child sits up after the examination.

“Well?” says the child.

“About the same,” says Abderos, pursing his lips. “I’m sorry. I wish I had better news. The illness itself has passed, and you’re no longer in danger. That’s something to celebrate. And there’s no damage to your nerves that I can find. We just need to find a way to get your strength back.”

The child nods. Gods, this is interminable. And the pity! She hates their pity. Abderos’s little pout, Mother’s sickly smile that’s supposed to be comforting. She doesn’t want their pity. She wants to walk.

“Thank you,” says Mother.

“Of course,” says Abderos, smiling. “Keep doing what you’re doing, lad.”

“Am I going to get better?” asks the child. “Am I going to be able to fight?”

Abderos makes that face again, that pitying, it’s-bad-but-I-don’t-want-to-say-so face. The healer has yet to say whether the child will even walk again, much less fight. He exchanges a glance with the child’s mother.

“I don’t think any of us know right now what you will or won’t be capable of,” he says. “Take your tinctures. Do your exercises. I’m afraid that’s the best thing you can do for the time being.”

The child nods, determined not to cry until he is gone.

Abderos exchanges a few quiet words with the child’s mother, then leaves with a clatter of beads. Mother returns and sits beside the bed, and holds the child’s hands. Mother’s hands are strong and firm from years fighting in the Arkmonian Guard, calloused by spear and sword and shield.

“I know how badly you want to get better,” says her mother. “I know you want to fight. And you know I will do everything I can to support you.”

The child turns away.

“But no matter what happens,” says her mother, “no matter what you can or can’t do, remember that I’m your mother and I love you. No matter what, I’m proud of who you are and what you can do. There’s nothing life can throw at us that will change that. Okay?”

The child rests her head on her mother’s shoulder.

“I love you,” the child sighs.

Mother hugs her tight, then stands.

“Abderos is getting your next dose ready,” she says. “I’ll bring it when it’s finished.”

Then Mother is gone, and the child is alone with her thoughts.

Yes. Yes, of course Mother loves her child no matter what. Of course Mother will be proud of her child, even as a scribe or a healer or a clerk.

But I want to fight!

The exercises are boring. Little motions, straining against miniscule resistance. Flexing a foot against a blanket. Lifting a pound or two of weight. And the rest of the time, awash in blankets and pillows, not even holding themself up. The child is making no progress. Gaining no strength. Being told not to push harder.

To the bleakest hell with that. With all of that, and the rest of it too.

The child shoves aside the pillows, puts her hands palm-down on the bed, and pushes. She grunts and swears. By the time she is sitting upright, she is sweating and breathing hard. She can see out into the yard, where the young cadets of the Arkmonian guard are still training.

Good! Good. That’s enough for now. That’s plenty.

She swings her legs down off the bed. The soles of her feet touch the ground.

Yes! Yes, I can do this!

“Aeona, grant me strength,” she mutters.

She grabs at the windowsill and pulls herself forward. Then she’s standing, really standing, both feet on the floor. Her legs are shaking. Her arms are shaking. But she’s standing.

Lift one foot. Swing it forward. Set it down. A step. One step.

Then her legs will no longer take her weight. She holds herself up on the windowsill for as long as she can, tries to fall backward onto the bed, and fails, collapsing to the floor in a heap.

She lies there for a moment, and then she begins to laugh. When her mother rushes into the room to help her she is still laughing, through the tears of pain and exertion.

One step.

It’s a start.

Eleven years ago

Selena runs.

Her breath comes in ragged gasps, and a dull ache spreads through her chest, but she keeps running. She is dressed like the other girls when they run, with a short skirt and a wrap around her chest, even though there is not much to cover just yet.

She runs. The illness is long behind her, her body largely recovered. But she still can’t exert herself as well as the other young people. Applicants to the Guard have to be able to run three miles in three-tenths of an hour. She’s still nowhere close.

The trail leads around the walls of Agrodor, a little more than three full miles. She runs it every evening. The sun has nearly set and the air beneath the forest canopy has grown cool, but she is sweating.

Keep pushing. Keep running. Step, then step, then step.

Selena’s vision starts to go gray, then black, and finally her legs give out. She sinks to the ground, gasping for breath, tears streaming down her face.

Get up, damn it. Get up!

No use. She’s not even halfway around the city, but she’s spent.

Then strong hands help her up, and someone presses a skin of water to her lips.

“You alright there, boy?”

She shakes her head.

“I’m not... a boy…” she gasps.

“My mistake,” says the stranger.

Selena’s vision clears, and she sees a stocky woman, perhaps 40, dressed in leather armor. The woman crouches next to her and looks her up and down as Selena takes another gulp of water.

“You’ve been to see the apothecary about it?”

“About which?” asks Selena. “Being weak? Or being a girl?”

“About being a boy,” says the stranger. “They’ve got tinctures you can take for that.”

“Every week,” says Selena. “Had to prove I was strong enough first.”

“And how’s that going?”

“So far?” says Selena. “I can’t stomach it. It all comes back up.”

“Every week?” asks the stranger.

Selena nods.

“But you still take it? Every week?”

“Mm-hm,” says Selena. She is already tired of this conversation.

“Why?” asks the stranger.

“Same reason I keep running,” she says, voice still raspy. “Maybe I can’t do it. Maybe my body won’t let me. But there’s only one way to find out.”

Selena stands up, hands back the waterskin, and wipes her mouth.

“Thanks for the water.”

The stranger stands too, nearly a head shorter. Selena resists the urge to slouch.

“Hey,” says the stranger. “What’s your name?”

“Selena.”

That much, the people of Agrodor will gladly grant her, and she is thankful for it. She is Selena, even if she may never be Selena of the Arkmonian Guard.

The stranger nods.

Selena wants to keep running, but the woman is her elder, with a military bearing that demands respect. No sense offending her. Even if she is nosy and imperious.

“And you?” asks Selena obligingly.

“Orythia of the Arkmonian Guard.”

Selena’s jaw drops.

“You’re Orythia?”

Orythia isn’t just of the Arkmonian Guard. She is the Guard. Selena knows her name, but has never seen her up close. Damn it, of all the times!

The older woman laughs.

“Is it that surprising?”

“No!” says Selena. “I mean, yes, it’s surprising, because I didn’t expect the leader of the Arkmonian Guard to hand me a waterskin today.”

Or find me flopping around the forest like a fish out of water. Or ask probing questions about my medical history.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Same thing you are,” says Orythia. “More or less. I like to run the perimeter sometimes. To keep myself in condition, and to see if I find anything out of place.”

Selena draws a deep, shuddering breath.

“Do I qualify?” she asks, smiling weakly.

“I’d say you do,” says Orythia, and she does not smile. “I want to show you something, if you’ll humor me.”

“Uh, sure,” says Selena. “I mean, of course. Ma’am.”

Orythia laughs again and walks down the path, gesturing for Selena to follow. Selena’s legs are longer, but Orythia’s pace is relentless.

“I’ve heard of you, you know,” says Orythia. “They say you want to be in the Guard more than anyone.”

Selena flushes and wishes she could sink into the earth.

“They do?”

“Mm-hm,” says Orythia. “You know, you don’t have to be a woman to get into the Guard. It’s just that most of our applicants are—”

“I know that!” snaps Selena, her face hot. “That’s not why I—”

“Okay, okay,” says Orythia. “Just making sure.”

Selena walks behind Orythia in silence, glad that the older Amazon cannot see her expression.

“Anyway,” says Orythia, “they say you’re our most zealous aspirant in years. But you had some kind of illness when you were younger, right?”

“Yes,” said Selena. Gods, she’s a sob story. “I couldn’t walk for half a year, when I was ten.”

“And here you are running,” says Orythia. “What, five years later? That’s impressive as hell.”

“...But?”

“Hm?”

“You were going to say, ‘That’s impressive as hell, but,’” says Selena. She can’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.

Orythia turns to look at her.

“I wasn’t,” says Orythia. “But since you mention it… well, impressive as it is, I did still find you gasping on the ground. So you’ve still got a ways to go, that’s all.”

“I can do it,” says Selena. “I will do it.”

“Mm,” says Orythia.

“Where are we going, ma’am?” asks Selena. “As you point out, I’ve got a lot of training to do.”

“You’ll see,” says Orythia. Selena follows her in sullen silence.

Selena hears it before she sees it, an intermittent twang, thock drifting through the wood. Then they round a bend in the path, and the trees part to reveal a small archery range.

Half a dozen young people are practicing with bows while a dour woman with her white hair gathered in a tight bun oversees them. These are not her fellow aspirants of the Guard, but future members of the Scouts’ Corps, the Guard’s much-maligned sister organization. Their “little sisters,” her friends sometimes say, although of course like the Guard they are not all women.

Orythia walks into the clearing, but Selena stops at the edge. Orythia stops, turns, and looks at her expectantly.

Selena tries to keep the fury from showing on her face. She feels it crawl up her cheeks and past her temples, prickling her scalp.

“I get it,” she says. “You’re saying I don’t belong in the Guard. That I should go join the Scouts.”

For the first time, Orythia looks angry.

“I said nothing of the sort.”

A few of the young archers glance at the confrontation brewing at the edge of their field, but a sharp word from the instructor puts their eyes back on the targets.

“What else could you possibly be saying?” hisses Selena. She’s crying now, desperate to be anywhere else.

“I bet a lot of people have told you what you couldn’t do,” says Orythia.

“W...what?”

“Ever since your sickness, right? And even before, when they thought you were a boy. I bet a lot of people—healers, trainers, maybe even your parents—have told you to blunt your expectations. To prepare to fail. To settle for something less than your highest ambition. Right?”

Selena nods.

“And you didn’t listen,” says Orythia. “They said you wouldn’t walk again, I know that much. You proved them wrong. They said you wouldn’t run. You proved them wrong again. You’re here to show everyone who doubted you that you can be whatever you want to be. Tell me I’m off the mark.”

“No,” says Selena. “You’re right.”

“You’ve trained hard,” says Orythia. “Like I said, I’m impressed that you can run at all, much less run halfway around the city. But here’s the hard truth: Right now, every single member of my Guard could outrun you, from the new recruits to the old-timers three times your age. Four times, in at least one case. Are you still getting faster? How about your endurance?”

“Faster, yes,” says Selena. “Endurance… no. Not for a while now. But I can’t give up, I just can’t. I have to keep pushing.”

“Do you want to join the Guard to do what the Guard does?” asks Orythia. “Or do you want to qualify for the Guard to prove to everyone that you can?”

That gives Selena pause.

Deep down, what is this really about? Is it just about proving everyone wrong?

“I want to fight for Agrodor,” says Selena. “Like my mother did, before she retired. And I’ve wanted it since before I was sick. She fought to protect me when I couldn’t, and I want to do the same. I want to fight for everyone who can’t.”

“Good,” says Orythia. “Next question: If you join the Guard, I’ll be your commander. Do you trust me?”

Selena weighs this. She has never met this woman before today. But she trusts, this day and every day, that Orythia’s Guard will keep her safe, within Agrodor and throughout the forest.

“I do,” says Selena. “I have to.”

“That’s right,” says Orythia. “So trust me. And don’t assume you know what I’m saying until I’ve said it. Understood?”

Selena nods, chin held high.

“Understood,” she says.

“Good,” says Orythia. “Come on.”

The woman with the white bun watches them as they walk onto the range.

“General Kalamnestra,” says Orythia. “Permission to enter the range?”

“General Orythia,” says the head of the Scouts with icy formality. “Granted. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Just training,” says Orythia. “Some of us like to know how to use a bow too, you know.”

“Of course,” says Kalamnestra in the same cold, clipped tone. “Stow the equipment properly when you’re done.”

Orythia nods and leads Selena to the far end of the archers’ side of the range.

“No love lost between the Guard and the Scouts,” says Orythia.

The older woman selects a bow from the temporary rack at the edge of the range.

“We’ll start you out with a fifteen-pound draw,” she says. “Good beginner weight. And… twenty paces distant, to start.”

“Isn’t… isn’t the bow a coward’s weapon?” asks Selena, dropping her voice so the archers won’t hear. “I trust you, it’s just… that’s what people say.”

“If you hear anybody in the Guard say that, tell them to come say it to me,” replies Orythia. “That’s just bravado, and it’s stupid. The bow is the weapon of someone who wants to hit something more than a spear’s throw away, that’s all.”

Selena ignores the glances of the other young archers as Orythia shows her where to put her feet, how to nock the arrow and rest it on her left hand, how to pull the arrow back to the corner of her mouth so the sinew rests on her nose. She ignores the chill gaze of the Scout general, ignores even her own shame and misgiving about picking up a coward’s weapon in the first place. She trusts the general.

She looses her first arrow, and it hits the target low and to the left with a gentle thock.

It’s a start.

By the time they’re done, Orythia has moved the target further away twice, and Selena is able to hit it consistently, and get the arrow within the second ring about half the time.

The work is harder than she realized. It doesn’t wear her out like running, but her right arm will be sore in the morning.

“I think that’s enough for today,” says Orythia. “Your raw strength is decent and your control is good. You could be a very good archer, if you work at it.”

Orythia puts a firm hand on Selena’s shoulder.

“You can’t run three miles,” says the general, “and maybe that’s just how it is. But if you can work your way up to a thirty-pound pull and a four-out-of-five hit rate at sixty paces or so… maybe running three miles won’t matter so much.”

Selena tries to fix those numbers in her head. Thirty-pound, four-out-of-five, sixty paces. Are they important?

“I don’t understand,” she says. “You have to run three miles to get into the Guard. Don’t you?”

Without answering, Orythia shows her how to put the bow away—unstring the sinew, roll it and wrap it. She walks back toward the city, and Selena follows without question. Orythia has earned that much.

As they walk back into the city, Orythia speaks at last.

“To get into the Guard, you have to prove that you’re willing and able to defend Agrodor and its people to your dying breath. You’re willing, beyond any doubt, and that’s a rarer quality than you might realize. But ability… that can mean a lot of different things. And you will not meet your potential, or be able to do what you are so clearly eager to do, if you bash yourself to pieces trying to meet your toughest obstacles head-on. You’re smarter than that. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and good eyes in that head. You need to find your own way to fight in the Guard. Understand?”

“I understand,” says Selena. “Thank you.”

Ten years ago

By the silver light of the moon, Selena nocks, draws, and looses, again and again and again. Thock, thock, thock, thock.

Her target is at sixty-five paces—ambitious, especially in the dark. Her draw weight is thirty pounds. Four of her five arrows have hit their mark.

The bow had appeared on her doorstep a few days after her conversation with Orythia. It was carved from a single thin piece of yew, about as tall as Selena. Bundled with it were several sinews, a maintenance kit, and three pages of explicit care instructions written in a cramped hand on expensive parchment. It represents a significant investment in her. Her mother never asked her where it came from, which Selena assumes means she already knew.

She’d grown stronger, practicing with the bow, than she had in her endurance drills. She learned to run without pushing past her limits, to give her body time to heal and grow. The tinctures from the apothecary stay down now, and Selena is pleased with the results.

She trains by moonlight, slipping out of the city by a secret way, because she doesn’t want to discuss her archery with the Scout trainees or her fellow Guard aspirants. She just wants to train. It’s not the safest, being outside the walls after dark, but her mother knows she’s out here.

Selena nocks and draws, arrow at the corner of her mouth, sinew pressed against her nose. She exhales and looses the arrow.

Thwunk, as the arrow sails wide of the target and lands in the wooden backing.

“Four out of five,” says a voice behind her. “Not bad.”

Selena exhales sharply but keeps herself from jumping.

“General Orythia,” she says, without turning.

The older woman walks around next to her and sizes her up.

“You’ve gotten taller,” she says. “You’ll want a new bow soon, I expect.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Selena. “I’ve asked for one for the Aeonaphoria.”

Amazons honor Aeona, the Goddess of Nature, every year at the harvest, and children are given gifts to prepare them for the coming year. After this year’s Aeonaphoria, Selena will no longer be considered a child.

“Hmph,” says Orythia. “Just in time to stow it away for the winter? That doesn’t sound right.”

She looks Selena up and down again.

“You done growing?”

“Not sure, ma’am,” says Selena. “But I think so.”

Orythia grunts, and Selena goes back to training.

Thock. Thock. Thock. Thock.

Selena nocks the next arrow, but does not draw.

“May I ask you something?”

“They say truth is told by moonlight,” says Orythia. “Let fly.”

“Why are you doing all this?”

“I told you last year,” says Orythia. “I need people who want to be in the Guard. You want it more than anyone, and as far as I can tell, you want it for the right reasons.”

“That sounds a bit like pity. Ma’am.”

Orythia stares at her.

“Child,” she says, “if I pitied you, I wouldn’t have brought you here that day I found you in the woods. I’d have gathered you up and carried you home to your mommy. And I would never, ever have hinted to you that you might be in the Guard someday. Because you wouldn’t.”

“Then… why?” asks Selena, arrow still nocked. “We don’t get things just because we want them. And no matter how badly I want it, I still can’t run as fast or as far as the others. I’m never going to be as good with a spear. I don’t have the endurance. Why not just carry me home and forget about me? Was it a favor for my mother?”

Orythia sighs.

“On the contrary,” she says. “Your mother asked me not to get your hopes up.”

“Really.”

“Don’t be mad at her, kid,” says Orythia. “She’s trying to protect you the way she always has, and you’re old enough now that she can’t, not really. Part of growing up, if you’re lucky, is watching your parents try to figure out what to do as their wee little baby slowly turns into a thinking person who wants to go out and get hurt a lot worse than skinning their knee. Some handle it better than others, and your mother’s handled it better than most. Better than I did, frankly.”

“Fine,” says Selena. “Really, then. Why?”

“The Guard needs all kinds of different people,” says Orythia. “If I only took the strongest, the swiftest, the proudest… well, then that’s all I’d have. One way of fighting, one way of thinking, one way of seeing. One group of exceptional people who might lose sight of all the ways their city has nurtured them, and all the different ways they might be called on to defend it. I need people who can see things for what they are. I need people who’ve been helpless in their lives. I need… leaders, frankly.”

“Leaders?” says Selena.

“You heard me,” says Orythia. “Take the shot.”

Draw. Arrow at the mouth, sinew on the nose. Loose.

Thock.

“Not bad, kid. Not bad at all.”

Two years ago

“Guards! Form up, spears ready!” yells Orythia.

Selena ignores the order as her fellow members of the Arkmonian Guard rush past her. Her place is here, on the hillside outside the city wall, overlooking the battle. General Orythia was clear about that.

Then, in the light of a quarter moon, she sees it crash through the trees: a cyclops three times her height, wielding a club that looks to have begun the day as a living tree. Its thick hide is peppered with arrows from the Scouts, but now it’s past their perimeter and threatening the city itself. General Orythia, still spry, fights from the second rank of soldiers, bellowing commands.

The thing bellows in rage and rushes toward the soldiers, its single eye glinting in the moonlight. The Guard swarm and flank it, harrying with their spears. Cyclops have thick necks and lousy peripheral vision, so this is the standard tactic—stab it as the opportunity arises, keep it occupied, and try to stay alive until it retreats, someone lands a telling blow, or the thing goes down under a hundred pin-pricks. Unfortunately, that one big eye also gives them excellent night vision, so the Guard usually has to fight them in the dark.

The cyclops tries to look in every direction at once, swinging its head and its club wildly. They’ve got it off-balance and confused, but this tactic is still risky and dangerous. The tree-trunk club connects, sending a soldier flying out of the clearing with a shattered scream. Selena waits and watches, looking for her shot at its only true weak point.

The thing is maybe fifty paces distant, a reasonable shot for most archers in sunlight. Its eye is bigger than her head, nearly the size of a practice target, so that’s easy. It’s dark, sure, but Selena’s used to that, and the cyclops’s eyeshine makes it easy. If only it would hold still!

Then she sees her chance.

“General!” yells Selena. “Withdraw! I can make the shot, but I need you to withdraw!”

It’s risky, the exact opposite of their combat doctrine. Give a cyclops time to think and room to run, and it can smash through any line of soldiers and probably the city wall. From right up close—that’s the way to do the long, bloody work of taking one down.

Unless you can hit it in the eye and save everyone a lot of trouble.

Orythia’s head whips around, and she catches Selena’s eye—across the battlefield, in the moonlight, from the hillside. Selena nods firmly, and Orythia nods back.

“Fall back!” yells Orythia. “Give it some space!”

The ranks of Amazons withdraw, and the cyclops lurches forward.

Selena nocks and draws. Arrow at the corner, sinew on the nose. She whistles very loudly across a battlefield suddenly gone quiet, and then she looses.

The cyclops turns its head to find the source of the sound. Selena’s arrow meets its eye right at the pupil.

The creature screams in pain, clutches at its face, and staggers backward.

“Charge!” yells Orythia, and she and two dozen other soldiers rush in with spears to finish off the blinded beast.

They make short work of it, and a ragged cheer erupts among the soldiers.

Other soldiers of the Guard pile wood around the thing, preparing to burn its loathsome carcass before any of the local wildlife try to eat it. Selena has to stay away from that—the smoke aggravates her lungs—so she helps shuttle wounded to the healer’s house for as long as she’s able. When her endurance flags, she sits on the hillside again and watches her sisters and brothers work.

Orythia walks up and sits next to her.

“Feels wrong, watching the young and hearty work so hard,” says the general. “Doesn’t it?”

“Always does,” says Selena. “You were in the thick of it earlier, though.”

“We all do our part,” says Orythia. “If I had a thousand healthy young people, I still might’ve lost half a dozen of them taking down a cyclops. Don’t feel bad for letting them do the heavy lifting when you’re the one who killed the damn thing. Nice shot, by the way.”

“Thanks,” says Selena. “And thank you for trusting me to take it.”

“Like I told you back when you were training,” says Orythia. “I need people who can see the big picture and understand when the usual tactics aren’t the best tactics. Real leaders. I’m not gonna last forever, you know.”

Selena stares at her, stunned at the implication.

“Sweet Aeona!” yells Orythia, massaging a leg cramp. “Especially not if I keep rushing in there like that. Help me up, will you?”

Selena offers the general her hand, smiling.

Present day

In the dark of night, Selena’s eyes snap open. She heard something. Didn’t she?

She sits up and looks around the barracks, lit by the light of a full moon. No one else seems to be awake. Maybe she imagined it. She lies down again.

“Selena,” says a woman’s voice.

Selena sits bolt upright.

“Come to me,” says the voice. It sounds like the rustle of leaves through trees, beautiful and gentle, and she knows with certainty that it means her no harm.

Selena is immediately suspicious. There are plenty of creatures in the forest that radiate otherworldly trustworthiness right up until they’re stealing your face or drowning you in the river.

“Selena,” says the voice. “Aeona calls you.”

Well. That’s different. Few creatures would dare claim to act in the name of the Goddess of Nature. Still. Can’t be too careful.

Selena slips out of her night clothes, straps her armor on, and grabs her bow.

A hand catches hers. Iola, in the next bunk over.

“Everything alright?” whispers Iola.

“Yeah,” Selena whispers back. “Just need some air.”

Iola’s hand squeezes hers and withdraws.

Selena climbs out the window of the barracks. The moon is bright, nearly as bright as daylight.

“Outside the walls,” says the voice. “Come to the hillside.”

Selena rolls her eyes.

“Of course,” she mutters. “Fine. But if I get eaten or drowned or turned inside out, I will be very displeased.”

Selena slips out of the city through her old secret ways, past the night guards and the closed gates. She passes the archery range with a twinge of nostalgia—how long has it been since she practiced by moonlight? At last, the hill where she slew the cyclops looms before her.

She crests the hill. At its top, silhouetted by the moon, is a massive gray wolf. The wolf stands, alert but not aggressive, waiting for her.

The wolf does not speak, but she can tell the voice belongs to it.

“Selena of the Arkmonian Guard,” says the voice. It is her name, her true name, and it seems to permeate her body.

Selena’s doubts fall away, and she kneels.

“Lady Aeona,” she breathes.

“Rise,” says the voice, speaking now through the air to her ears.

Selena looks up and sees what can only be Aeona standing in place of the wolf. The goddess is no taller than her, but fearsome in aspect. Antlers and vines curl around her head. Her mouth smiles, but it is a hungry smile, the sort of smile that hides sharp teeth set within gaping jaws. Her eyes shine like a cat’s in the dark.

Selena stands, but she takes a step back down the slope of the hill, to stay below her goddess. She has many questions, but she does not speak them.

“Whom do you serve?” asks Aeona.

Selena’s brow furrows.

“I serve General Orythia,” she says at last. “Through her, I serve my sisters and brothers in the Guard. Through them, I serve my city and my people.”

“And through them?” asks Aeona.

“I… don’t know,” says Selena. “I never thought about it.”

“Your people,” says Aeona, “are the stewards of the forest. Through it, you serve nature. And through Nature… you serve me.”

“Of course,” says Selena. “What service do you wish?”

“I have cause to appoint a champion,” says Aeona. “A mortal to represent me in a contest of the gods.”

Selena’s eyes widen.

“Why me?” she asks.

“Nature is smarter than people give it credit for,” says Aeona. “Beasts are not stupid. Not even trees are mindless. Every living thing knows what it needs to survive. And it seeks those things relentlessly, with a purpose that can far exceed the meanderings of most so-called thinking beings. Do you see?”

“I see, but I don’t understand. What does that have to do with me?”

“You know what you need to survive,” says Aeona. “You have pursued it relentlessly, with both the drive of a beast and the cunning of a thinking being. That is what I need.”

“I am driven,” says Selena, “and I suppose I am cunning. But… my body is weak, Lady Aeona. I do not wish to fail you. You might want to consider—”

“I do not consider,” says Aeona.

“Then…” Selena falters, and in that moment she feels like a child again—weak and uncertain in the presence of her elders. “Then can you… fix me?”

Aeona’s face softens.

“I will bless you and strengthen you,” says Aeona, “as I would any mortal who served as my champion. But fix you?”

Aeona’s hand brushes her cheek with the softness of a night breeze.

"There is nothing to fix."

Selena’s eyes fill with tears, and she nods.

"You are not broken," Aeona continues. "You are Selena, and I have chosen you as you are.”

Selena clasps her goddess’s hand.

"Then I will be your champion."

Together, they vanish into the moonlight.

An intro and an outro? Please forgive me.

Selena is transgender, as am I. It was important for the story to authentically represent this character, and to do so in a way that didn’t overwhelm the story. Selena’s gender is a part of who she is, but it isn’t everything. She is, primarily, someone who sees the situation for what it truly is.

Kelly and I had a discussion which has been posted on the Immutable YouTube channel. In the “Storytelling Masterclass", Kelly discusses his experiences about telling stories through and around strategy card games. We go in depth about Lysander, Neferu, and Pallas, and I encourage you to check it out.

Next time, we will meet the Champion of War.

Thanks for being a part of this.

Andrea Davis is the Lead Game Designer on Gods Unchained. An award-winning designer and producer, Andrea has helped to create digital trading card games since 1998. Find them on Twitter at @andrea2s1, or on the Gods Unchained Discord as Seeker.

Kelly Digges is a narrative designer and creative consultant for games, with 90 credits across more than 50 products for Magic: The Gathering and other games. Find him on Twitter at @kellydigges.

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Story

Orfeo’s Origin — Masks

Overview

The gods have agreed to a divine contest and prepared the Grand Arena. Now each god must choose a champion from among their mortal followers. The champions have one thing in common: all of them were extraordinary, well before they gained a god’s attention. We have already met the champions of Light, Death, and Magic. Today we meet — well, let’s just wait and see. Introducing the Champion of Deception is no simple matter...

The Story

Chapter 5: Orfeo’s Origin — Masks

by Kelly Digges

Free City of Ronella

Ten years ago

A little silver bell rings as the boy opens the front gate. He looks about fifteen, his face speckled with the barest beginnings of a beard. His pack is laden with goods, and he holds a large basket, but he takes the time to make sure the gate shuts gently. He braces for impact.

Two great black mastiffs seem to materialize out of nowhere, rushing toward him. He lifts the basket over his head with one hand, laughing, as the dogs mob him, jumping and leaning and licking his hand. He gives each of them a friendly scratch—one between its ears, the other under its chin. He knows which is which.

“Titus!” yells a wavering voice from inside the manor. “Tiberius! Leave the poor boy alone!”

The boy slips each of the dogs a bit of gristle, and they retreat, tails wagging happily. The boy laughs.

“It’s alright, Lady Marcella!” he yells as he walks up the steps through the front garden, favoring his left leg slightly, sandals splashing through small puddles. “They’re just friendly!”

“Only with you!” shouts the lady of the house. “They’re supposed to be guard dogs!”

He opens the manor door and steps inside, shucking his sandals in the entryway.

“You spoil them, Eleon,” says Lady Marcella from the next room.

Basket in hand, Eleon enters the parlor and bows with a flourish.

“Someone must,” he says teasingly, setting the basket down on the table. He knows how to talk like a patrician, but he can’t quite emulate the accent. Perhaps he will always sound like a pretender.

Lady Marcella is old—Eleon can’t guess how old. Her skin is papery and dotted with liver spots. Her eyes are rheumy, and do not track him as he moves around the room. But her mind is still sharp, her hair and nails well kept, her patrician’s outfit immaculate. There must be servants about, somewhere in the manor, but Eleon has never seen them.

As in any proper patrician’s home, there’s a shrine on one wall featuring all six gods, with minor enchantments that must have cost a fortune. Thaeriel’s likeness holds a small white orb that glows from within, while Aeona clutches a flower that is always in bloom. Ludia, the God of Deception, turns away from the others, and her face isn’t quite visible from any angle.

Lady Marcella frowns as he lays out the contents of the basket on the table: butter, figs, a squat loaf of dense brown bread, and a new box of tea leaves. A teapot already sits on the table, waiting.

“Is your leg bothering you again?” she asks.

“Oh!” says Eleon. “It is, a bit. How can you tell?”

“I can hear the difference in your gait,” says Lady Marcella. “That, and you’re a few minutes late, which only happens when you’re walking slow.”

“Don’t worry about me,” says Eleon, as he cuts the bread into thick slices. “Just the rain last night, is all. My knee always troubles me after rain. It’s a beautiful morning, though, so thank the gods for that.”

“Thank the gods indeed,” says Lady Marcella.

Then she and Eleon work together in silence, turning the contents of the basket into a simple breakfast for two. The new tea leaves steep into a rich black tea with a hint of cinnamon. It’s from far away, and it’s not cheap.

“Do you have time to eat with me? Indulge an old woman.”

“Of course,” says Eleon with a bow.

It is always like this, day after day—the polite request, the polite acceptance. Eleon is only a shop-boy after all, and Lady Marcella has no claim on his time beyond the delivery. The truth, as far as he can tell, is that she’s lonely, and a shop-boy who tarries is better company than the servants who must meet her needs or the other patricians who might call on her. He is here every day, he’s attentive to her needs, and he hopes she considers him a friend. In any case, the dogs like him.

They talk and laugh through breakfast, as Eleon relays the latest rumors to Lady Marcella and she regales him with stories about her youth. At last, he rises.

“I’m afraid that’s all the time I have,” he says.

“Of course,” says Lady Marcella.

She hands him his coin demurely, as a noblewoman should. As usual, she has slipped in a few extra coins and a little fruit candy in a paper wrapping. Eleon smiles and sweeps all of it into his pocket without a word.

“Do you want me to help clean up?” he asks, as always.

“No, no,” she says, as always. “I’ll take care of it. You have a lovely day.”

“You too, Lady Marcella,” says Eleon, bowing one last time. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, dear.”

Eleon turns and limps away, his pack still full.

The young man sweeps into the olive press like a perfumed stormcloud, his white and green robes swirling around him. He is perhaps fifteen, tall enough but still a little too gangly to be imposing. His face is classically proportioned but somehow unhandsome, and the barest beginnings of a beard (of which he is much too proud) grace a chin like the prow of a boat. Handsome or no, he carries himself like a nobleman’s son and he smells of rosewater, and that is enough to strike terror in any commoner’s heart.

The head of the press is a man named Silvio, blessed in his middle years with a generous belly and more bushy black hair on his face than on his head. He whirls around as one of his workers shouts something to him over the noise of the cylindrical presses grinding away.

“Young Master Flavius!” he says. His manner is remarkably calm, but the young man can see the sweat that’s just broken out all over his scalp. “I didn’t know you were in town! To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Gaius Flavius Dio, eldest son of Gaius Flavius Sirinnius, grins like a shark.

“If my presence is a pleasure,” says Flavius coolly, “then clearly I’m not working you hard enough.”

He speaks in the manner of a true patrician, born and raised, carefully enunciating every syllable without regard to those around it.

“An honor, then,” says Silvio with a bow, chuckling as though Flavius had just made a joke rather than a threat.

“Of course it is,” says Flavius. “I’m here about your throughput last month. My father is displeased.”

“Ah, of course,” says Silvio. “I’m afraid even with the protection of your name, the Guild has been—”

“Show me around the works,” says Flavius. “If your equipment is lacking, show me where. If your workers are insufficiently motivated, show me who. And if the Guild is troubling you… not even they can ignore my father’s wrath.”

“Yes… yes, Master Flavius. Right this way.”

The young patrician takes the lead despite having no idea where he is going, taking cues from the stuttering commoner behind him. He smiles as he counts in his head, timing the visit, making sure he still has enough time to shave and change clothes for his next appointment.

“Iseult!” yells a stocky woman in a leather apron. “Iseult! I swear, Beatrice, if that girl is late one more time—”

“I’m here!” yells a hoarse but lilting voice from around the corner. “Sorry!”

A tall young woman rounds the corner, dragging the reins of a stubborn mule, which in turn drags a battered old cart.

She is perhaps seventeen, her face dotted by freckles and a few streaks of dirt. She wears brown leather riding gear and a lumpy hat that can’t quite contain all the wisps of her fiery red hair. She is a northerner, and no hat can hide that. Tall as she is, she’s skinny, almost boyish, not quite living up to the myth of the great northern warrior women. She walks with a hunch, as though afraid to tower over people.

“Mrs. Donata, Mrs. Beatrice,” she says in her singsong accent. She curtsies with the edge of her riding coat. “I’m so sorry. Someone’s ox up and died in the middle of Market Street, and—”

“Spare us,” says Mrs. Donata with a wave of her hand. “Just get our things unloaded.”

“Yes ma’am,” says Iseult.

She goes around the back of the cart to grab one of the heavy bags and finds a greasy young man waiting for her. Timion, a year or two younger than her, is one of the insufferable boys who hang around this particular corner with nothing better to do than bother her.

“Hey, Iseult,” he says, smiling like a hunting cat. “Got any extra room in that wagon of yours?”

Iseult rolls her eyes at him as she grabs one of the bags.

“I can’t even tell if that’s supposed to be innuendo,” she replies.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says. “This is strictly business.”

“What do you want?”

“You deliver all over the city,” says Timion. “I have some friends who might like to slip in an extra shipment, quiet-like.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” says Iseult. “Now kindly step away from my wagon.”

He spreads his hands wide and backs away.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” he says, and winks.

Satisfied that he’s gone, Iseult returns to her work. There’s an extra bag in there that’s marked for the two shopkeeps. It wasn’t on the manifest, but Iseult knows better than to ask questions. She unloads it along with the rest. She collects her payment and takes the mule’s reins again.

Mrs. Beatrice, who has no patience whatsoever for Timion and his gang, finally emerges from the shop to see Iseult off.

“Don’t mind him,” says Mrs. Beatrice. “You’re better than any three of his little gang.”

“I know,” says Iseult. “Thanks, Mrs. Beatrice.”

Then she pulls at the mule’s reins, on the way to her next delivery.

The boy is grubby, dressed in castoffs and rags, with hair that might never have seen soap. His face is smeared with unidentifiable muck, his skin is pallid, and he hunches over, like a dog that’s been struck. Obvious malnourishment and odd mannerisms make his age almost impossible to guess. And he smells terrible.

He crouches in an alleyway lit by the setting sun, and a voice drifts around the corner to him.

“—so anyway, the Guild sends down a whole goon squad,” says the voice. “Couple bruisers, couple slinkers, all led by one of their weasely little captains who’s too big for his bristles. Couldn’t’ve been older than sixteen.”

“War’s beard,” says a second voice, higher pitched but hushed. “What’d you do?”

“Well, I paid ‘em their cut, of course,” says the first voice. “What else was I gonna do? But…”

His voice drops conspiratorially, but the angles of the alley still bring it straight to the boy’s ears.

“...They can’t skim what they don’t know about, know what I mean?”

The boy waits and listens as the man elaborates, toying disinterestedly with a bit of twisted metal until the conversation turns to other things. Then he tucks the metal away into one of the many pockets of his ragged clothes and ducks out of the alley way, checking furtively for strangers.

The boy slinks up to the fruit stall with a strange, loping gait, practically on all fours. He pops his head up and smiles, his teeth coated in some unidentifiable muck.

“Eyugh,” says Tullia, the owner of the second voice. She’s no older than twenty and a born commoner, but her face has a pinched expression that lends her an unearned and unflattering impression of nobility.

“Hey, fella!” says Brizio, the owner of the first voice. He’s a skinny older man, Tullia’s father, all arms and apron, and he smiles right back at the boy. “Don’t mind her. How’s Rattle today?”

The boy, Rattle, never speaks, and the various residents of the street argue about whether he can’t speak, can’t think, or just doesn’t have much to say. People used to say he only had three or four dry old beans rattling around between his ears, and the name stuck.

Rattle gives an exaggerated shrug, as though to say About the same as yesterday.

Brizio laughs.

“Me too, buddy,” he says. “Me too.”

Rattle holds out his hands as he makes his eyes wide and his lip stick out, like a begging puppy. Brizio laughs again.

“Of course, of course,” he says. “Want an apple today? Just got ‘em in.”

Rattle nods vigorously, smiling even wider. Brizio tosses him a red, round apple with a big bruise on one side. The boy catches it and messily devours it, stem and seeds and all.

“I don’t know why you indulge that filthy creature” says Tullia, as though the boy is not there. “Ought to be run off the street.”

“You’ve too hard a heart,” says Brizio. “If we don’t care for those less fortunate, we’re no better than the Guild. Ain’t that right, Rattle?”

The boy nods again, as though he has no idea what the man is saying, and scampers off.

Orfeo sits in the small tub and scrubs himself thoroughly, trying to wipe away the accumulated scents of butter and tea, rosewater and olives, sweat and mules, filth and more filth. What a day. At least he already shaved, in between Flavius and Iseult—not that using a razor with no mirror in a basin behind a warehouse is any treat.

Orfeo is fifteen, not especially tall or short, not particularly tall or thin. He has a forgettable face, angular but not handsome, with no particular feature standing out against the others. His voice has begun to change, but it’s still high enough that he can convincingly portray a woman. In another year or so Iseult will probably have to retire.

His poor hair. He runs a hand through it, working the last of Rattle’s tangles out of it. He hates being Rattle. He hates the smell, he hates that painfully awful posture. He hates waiting around until he becomes invisible to polite society. But above all, he hates being Rattle because he knows that, but for his adoptive family, that could have been him.

Orfeo climbs out of the tub and dries himself, relishing the feel of being naked, clean, and himself. He dresses quickly in simple garb, with no perfume, and hurries upstairs to dinner.

Vettorio is there in the little dining room waiting for him—Vettorio, who is not his father, but the closest he has. Vettorio found him in one of the House of Light’s shelters, perhaps five years old, after his parents died. Something about Orfeo caught Vettorio’s eye, and he reached an arrangement with the priests of Thaeriel and brought the boy home.

Home, to the Guild. The closest thing he has to a family.

“Orfeo!” says Vettorio, gesturing for him to sit. “Welcome back, my boy. Tell me everything.”

The boy bows to a small statue of Ludia by the entryway and drops a coin into the offering box. The Guild is not a religious institution by any means, but Vettorio himself is a devout man, with an undeniable affinity for the Lady of Lies.

Orfeo sits and begins the familiar ritual, relating every detail of his day to Vettorio in between bites. The older man sits, fingers steepled, listening. Orfeo could swear he never sees Vettorio take a bite, but by the end of dinner his plate is always just as empty as Orfeo’s.

There is, as usual, no news from Eleon. Lady Marcella’s in the same health as ever, still mostly blind, still very nice, still lonely. Orfeo dutifully hands over the extra coin, but he keeps the candy for later.

Young Master Flavius had a more interesting day, squeezing the olive press to meet the needs of its seldom-seen owner—none other than Vettorio himself, in the guise of Gaius Flavius Sirinnius, a very wealthy nobleman from outside the city. The Guild keeps extorting the olive works for more protection money, but the Guild is also secretly running the olive works… Orfeo has no idea how that particular grift is supposed to work, but he plays his part in it anyway.

Orfeo rattles off Iseult’s deliveries, making note of the extra ones. He relays Timion’s clumsy offer of smuggling work, and Vettorio says he’ll look into it. Orfeo also relays what he learned from Timion today—the obnoxious mannerisms he’s absorbed, the ineffective pressure tactics he’s picked up. Timion is a singularly unpersuasive and charmless young man, and one never knows when that will come in handy.

And then there is Rattle, who always learns many interesting things as he flits through the city’s lower quarters. Brizio’s ill-advised attempts to hide profits from the Guild headline the report, but Rattle learned of many smaller indiscretions as well. Perhaps Vettorio will once again let Orfeo take the risk of playing the young Guild captain’s role himself, putting his skills to the true test of showing two different faces to the same person more than once.

“Decently done,” says Vettorio at last. “I wasn’t sure you could handle four faces in one day, and you did it nearly without a hitch. But Iseult was late making her deliveries.”

Orfeo hadn’t said anything about running late, but he’s not surprised that Vettorio knows about it.

“Yes, sir,” he says. “I made a plausible excuse.”

“Plausible indeed!” says Vettorio, smiling. “I heard a dozen cows dropped dead at the market. Now there’s worry about a sickness.”

“Oh.”

“It’s vital that you make your deliveries as scheduled. Other operations could be waiting on them. Iseult may be a country girl with no sense of time, but you are not. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” says Orfeo.

“Why were you late?” asks Vettorio, taking a sip of wine. “You should’ve had plenty of time to tour the olive works after breakfast.”

“I suppose I tarried too long at Lady Marcella’s,” says Orfeo.

“I suppose you did,” says Vettorio. “You need to take your job more seriously, Orfeo. Your real job. All these other names, these other faces… they’re just masks. And however much our dear sweet Eleon might wish to sit and entertain an old woman, the cunning, careful Orfeo must rush back into the wings to prepare for his next role. You must know what Eleon is thinking, but you must not let yourself think it!”

Orfeo breathes deeply, in and out, and nods. Vettorio is fond of lectures, especially when he is most of the way through a glass of wine.

“But,” says Vettorio, with a little grin, “you did thoroughly terrorize the olive works. I’ve already heard three different rumors about Gaius Flavius the younger, each more wretched than the last. Well done there.”

Orfeo laughs.

“I yelled at them about the smell!” he says. “Said it was disgraceful. It was very gratifying watching them try to diplomatically explain to one of the owners of their olive press that that’s just how it smells when you press olives.”

Vettorio laughs with him. Then the laughter fades to silence, and the older man’s brow wrinkles.

“You seem troubled tonight, my boy,” says Vettorio.

“I do?” says Orfeo. He considers. Is he troubled?

“You do,” says Vettorio. “And since you’ve worn four different faces today, I’ll forgive you for letting your real one say too much. You are among family, after all. You can tell me what’s on your mind.”

Orfeo has to think for a moment. What is on his mind? What is troubling Orfeo, when the other faces are put away for the night?

“It’s just… All of this feels so pointless.”

“Pointless!” says Vettorio. “In what sense?”

“This is just practice,” he says. “It’s boring, being run through my paces again and again and again. Is this what you brought me up to do? Defraud merchants of their mealy apples and old women of their candy?”

“Three things,” says Vettorio, holding up three fingers. “One: This is exactly how someone like you becomes someone like me. ‘Boring’ practice, where the stakes are low, is exactly the way to learn your craft—where you shouldn’t be a few minutes late or a little too tangled up in your role, but lives and livelihoods do not hang in the balance. Agreed?”

“...Agreed,” says Orfeo. “I just think I’m ready for—”

“Two,” says Vettorio. “You accomplished a great deal today, enough that any operative would be proud. I know you don’t understand the olive press, but you trust that our effort there is important, and today you advanced it admirably. Iseult’s extra deliveries continue to supply our operatives throughout the city. And your intel about this fruit-seller will bring in a small fortune, once we figure out what else he’s up to.”

Orfeo nods.

“What about Eleon?”

“Three,” says Vettorio, then sighs. “If you truly feel you’re ready for a ‘real’ operation, a payoff for all this practice… I do have something for you.”

“Really?” says Orfeo.

“Really,” says Vettorio. “Clear the table, then come to my office for a briefing.”

Orfeo grins.

“Thank you!” he says.

“Don’t thank me yet,” says Vettorio, and he does not return Orfeo’s smile.

He lifts the basket over his head as the two black mastiffs mob him. They seem especially interested in his basket today, but he distracts them with friendly scratches and a few bites of gristle.

“Tiberius!” yells Lady Marcella. “Titus! You let him in!”

“Good morning, Lady Marcella!” yells Eleon, laughing. “They’re fine.”

“They’re beasts!” she yells back.

He walks up the steps through the front garden, sandals splashing in small puddles. He opens the manor door and steps inside, shucking his sandals in the entryway.

“More treats, no doubt,” says Lady Marcella, smiling.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Eleon, in his most aggrieved tone. He enters the room, bows, and sets the basket on the table.

Lady Marcella looks much the same as yesterday—still very old, still very sharp, still immaculate, still nearly blind. She’s quieter than usual this morning. Or is that his imagination?

Eleon lays out the contents of the basket, his hands shaking slightly despite himself. He has butter and jam today, a fresh apple, and another loaf of that dark brown bread. The tea from yesterday is back out on the table, a fresh pot of hot water waiting.

The altar on the wall looks the same as it did yesterday. The gods are eternal, but their likenesses on Eucos do well to be frequently dusted.

He brews the tea, as he always does, and pours, as he always does. He slips half a spoonful of white powder from the hem of his sleeve into her cup as he pours, heart pounding. Then he spoons honey into both cups, putting more than usual in hers.

“It rained again last night,” says Lady Marcella.

“Did it?” says Eleon. “I must have been asleep.”

Gods, there were puddles on the steps. He’d been so distracted, had he remembered to—

“I know why you’re here,” says Lady Marcella quietly.

Eleon stammers. Orfeo panics. If she calls those dogs back, tells them to attack, all the gristle in the world won’t save him.

“Sit down, young man,” she says. “And hand me my tea.”

Orfeo’s mouth drops open.

“But you—but it’s—”

“I know what it is,” says Lady Marcella. “At least let me drink it before it goes cold.”

Numbly, Orfeo hands her the cup of poisoned tea. It smells of cinnamon and honey, and she inhales deeply before taking a sip.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” says Lady Marcella. “I’m going to drink my tea, and you and I are going to talk about all this. Some bread, dear?”

Orfeo takes the bread, but does not eat it.

“How did you know?”

“First of all,” says Lady Marcella, sipping her tea and making a face, “you forgot the limp today. Too preoccupied with your onerous task, no doubt.”

Damn. Sloppy.

“And let me say,” she continues with the sharpness of a disappointed sophist, “that was a rather extravagant affectation to begin with, especially if you’re trying to fool someone who’s nearly blind.”

“We’re supposed to create specific details for people to focus on,” says Orfeo. “I picked one you could see. I mean, not see, but—”

“You picked one I could see through,” says Lady Marcella. “You’d have been better off with a distinctive scent, something that doesn’t hinge on a perfect performance.”

“So you’ve known all along that I wasn’t who I said I was?”

“I suspected you from the start,” says Lady Marcella. “Oh, don’t be too hard on yourself, dear, I suspect everyone. In fact I didn’t notice that the limp was off for quite some time. And your accent, let me say, is exquisite. Dockside boy putting on airs, yes?”

Orfeo nods.

“So what about… today?” he asks. “What about the tea?”

“Too much honey,” says Lady Marcella, waggling a finger. “I could smell it. Trying to cover up the bitterness of the poison, of course, but it’s an easy tell if you’re looking for it. Next time try a pinch of salt.”

“Salt? Really?”

“Mmm-hm,” says the little old woman. “Masks bitterness without affecting the flavor. You can try it yourself, if you overbrew your tea. Doesn’t Vettorio teach you children anything?”

“You know Vettorio?”

Lady Marcella chuckles.

“My boy, I trained Vettorio,” she says. “And he ought to spend a night in the Hollow for sending a child up against me.”

“You’re Guild,” says Orfeo.

“Retired,” she says, “as much as one can be. Vettorio allowed me to fade away, on the condition that my repose remain quiet.”

She smiles.

“I may have violated the terms of our agreement. Meddled in his business. It’s too late for my death to make any difference, of course. I’ve made all my arrangements, even for the dogs. But I suppose Vettorio must make an example of me.”

“Can I ask why you’re drinking that?” asks Orfeo.

“Oh, if it’s not you, it’ll be someone else,” she says, with a wave of her hand. “It makes no difference to me whether you succeed. But it makes a great deal of difference to you.”

“So you’re… helping me assassinate you?”

“I’m just drinking my tea,” she says. “What’s your name, young man?”

“Orfeo.”

“That’s your real name, is it?” she asks.

“For as long as I can remember.”

“And is it what your parents called you? Is it the name you had when he found you and took you off the street to mold you to a life of crime, just like he did all the others?”

“I don’t know,” says Orfeo. “...How many others?”

“A handful, at any given time,” says Lady Marcella. “Over the years… dozens at least.”

Orfeo shakes his head.

“No. It can’t be that many.”

“Not all of them make it, dear,” she says quietly. “In fact, most don’t make it as long as you have.”

Her breathing is slowing, getting more labored. The cup is about half empty.

“Listen,” she says, grabbing him by the wrist. “I’m sure he’s given you the whole talk about how all these roles you play are just masks, and you mustn’t get too attached to them. He heard that talk from me, and he took it to heart.”

Orfeo nods.

“But you must remember that ‘Vettorio’ is just another mask,” she says. “It’s the one he shows to you, and it’s as fake as all the rest. He’s not family, no matter what he tries to tell you.”

“He’s the closest thing I have,” says Orfeo. “If I can’t trust him, who can I trust?”

“No one, my dear,” she whispers. “And if you’re going to survive the Guild…”

She pats his hand.

“...make sure that Orfeo is just a mask, too. Keep your real face hidden inside. Never forget it’s there. If you lose sight of that…”

Lady Marcella closes her unseeing eyes, breathing in shallow little gasps. She still clutches the tea cup; when she dies, it will fall.

“Ludia,” she whispers, so quietly he can barely hear her now. “Lady of Lies, watch over him.”

Eleon quietly gathers up his pack and leaves Lady Marcella’s rattling breaths behind.

The boy knocks on the door to Vettorio’s office. He is fifteen, with long limbs and an unremarkable face.

“Come in, Orfeo,” says Vettorio through the closed door. Uncanny.

Orfeo enters, shutting the door quietly behind him. There is an offering-box for Ludia here too, and the boy drops a coin in. The office smells of leather and pipe smoke. Vettorio sits with his fingers steepled and says nothing.

“It’s done,” says Orfeo. “As planned. I didn’t stay for the final breath, but she was beyond help.”

“Exactly as planned?” asks Vettorio, his eyes narrowing.

Orfeo hesitates, as though he doesn’t wish to admit a failing.

“She did complain that I’d put too much honey in her tea,” he says. “But I played it off, just like you taught me.”

“Mmm,” says Vettorio. “There’s a better trick to hiding poison. Remind me to teach it to you sometime.”

“I will,” says Orfeo.

“And that’s it? You served it, she drank it, she died?”

“Yes, sir.”

Vettorio studies his student.

“And how do you feel about that?”

Orfeo shrugs.

“I feel fine,” he says. “Better than I thought I would. I was nervous beforehand, but now I’m just glad to have it done.”

“Do you want to know why I had you kill her?”

“Not particularly,” says Orfeo. “I don’t know why I made an olive presser cry yesterday either, but I can play my part.”

Vettorio studies him for a moment longer, then brightens.

“Good!” he says. “Good. I’d hoped that would be the case, but one never knows. You did well today, my boy. We’ll retire Eleon and find a use for your newfound free time in the mornings.”

“Thank you,” says Orfeo.

“I think you may be ready for bigger things after all,” says Vettorio. “In the meantime… Iseult’s route starts soon.”

“Yes, sir,” says Orfeo. “On my way.”

He bows and departs, his face calm and happy, showing nothing of what’s beneath.

Present day

Orfeo ducks into his office through the hidden passage. He only learned of the passage three years ago, when he inherited the office from Vettorio. He does not offer a coin to the little statue of Ludia—what would be the point of that, now that he’s the one who empties it?—but he bows to her, as always.

He settles into his chair for the boring but important work of reading espionage reports and extortion accounts. He still puts his skills to use, but not on a daily basis. Iseult and Rattle have vanished with the unquestioned anonymity of the poor. Gaius Flavius the younger inherited his father’s fortune and still runs his business concerns from outside the city, although the olive press is long gone. The Guild torched it, making good on their threats, and Gaius Flavius the elder duly collected the insurance money.

Things are largely unchanged from Vettorio’s days as spymaster for the dockside cell of the Ronella Guild operation, with one exception. Orfeo takes on students from elsewhere in the Guild, but he does not “rescue” children from poverty the way Vettorio did. A close examination of Orfeo’s accounts would reveal substantial donations to several shelters and orphanages around the city. A carefully prepared trail of evidence paints these donations as a money-laundering scheme for off-the-books income, but this is only a mask. In truth they are born of simple sentiment, a far worse crime in the Guild than any petty corruption.

There is a knock at the door, and Orfeo frowns. He’s not expecting anyone. He reaches under the desk, his hand hovering over a secret lever connected to a hidden crossbow inside the desk.

“Come in,” he says.

The door does not open. Instead, there is a polite cough behind him. He whirls around, a small knife appearing in his hand. He tries to shout for help, but no sound comes out.

There’s a woman standing behind him. She’s wearing a regal purple dress and a silver mask, and she holds one finger up to her lips.

“Hello, Orfeo,” says the woman. “Surely you recognize me.”

And then he does recognize her. Her face is always hidden, but he knows it anyway. Her voice sounds like the clink of coins and the whisper of a dagger being drawn. The air in the little room seems to thicken.

Ludia.

He knows, somehow, that it is not a trick—that this woman is the same entity as the statue in the corner of the office, the same god who turned her face from the others back in Lady Marcella’s parlor all those years ago.

The knife disappears back into his sleeve, and he slides forward into a kneel.

“Lady of Lies,” he says. “How… How may I serve?”

“Get up, for starters.” she says, walking around the desk. “Servility doesn’t suit you.”

He rises in one fluid motion. Deep breath. Mask on, even to a god.

“You’ve had quite a career,” says Ludia. “So many faces. So many lies. How many people have you been, Orfeo? Do you even know?”

“It would depend on how you count, my lady,” says Orfeo. “Hundreds of momentary roles. Dozens of larger ones. May I ask what this is about?”

“Why, it’s about you, in all your multitudes,” says Ludia. “I require a mortal champion to stand for me in a contest of the gods. I’ve watched you work, and I believe you’ll do.”

Orfeo considers.

“Risks? Rewards?”

Ludia smiles.

“I am a god,” she says. “I can’t give you specifics, but you should expect that both will be commensurate to your station as my sole champion.”

“Can I say no?” asks Orfeo.

“You may,” replies Ludia. “In that case, you’ll forget about this conversation, and I’ll go offer the job to someone more ambitious.”

“Interesting,” says Orfeo. “Has anyone else refused, or am I your first choice? For that matter, has anyone else accepted?”

“Very clever questions, which I would be happy to answer after you’ve accepted the job. I think you’ll find my bargaining position is rather stronger than yours. Yes or no?”

She reaches out a hand.

“Of course,” says Orfeo. “I accept.”

He takes her hand, and a large silver chain springs out of nowhere, wrapping around his outstretched arm.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“You are the Champion of Deception,” says Ludia, spooling out the chain. “I know exactly how much trouble you can cause with the power I’m about to give you. You’ll have a great deal of freedom… but never forget who’s holding the leash.”

Who can I trust?

He looks down at the elegant silver chain wrapped tightly around his arm.

No one, my dear.

“Of course,” says Orfeo. “Let’s get started.”

There is a shimmer of purple light as the God of Deception departs with her champion, leaving the empty office behind.

Kelly Digges is a narrative designer and creative consultant for games, with 90 credits across more than 50 products for Magic: The Gathering and other games. Find him on Twitter at @kellydigges.

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Story

Valka's Origin – A Traitor’s Blood

Overview

The gods have agreed to a divine contest and prepared the Grand Arena. Now each god must choose a champion from among their mortal followers. The champions have one thing in common: all of them were extraordinary, well before they gained a god’s attention. We have already met the other champions: Light, Death, Magic, Deception, and Nature. Today we meet Valka, who will become the Champion of War.

The Story

Chapter 7: Valka’s Origin — A Traitor's Blood

by Kelly Digges

Great Hall of Clan Nokkvi

Twelve years ago

Valka downs the last of her ale and slams the mug onto the table. The sound echoes through the cavernous great hall, above the low hum of casual conversation.

“What is taking so long?” she groans, as loud as she dares.

Her friend Oddi strums idly on a lyre.

“You know very well Grimolf’s going to bend your father’s ear for another half-hour before he lets the poor man see you off.”

Valka groans.

“Valorous Valka,” Oddi sings quietly, “slayer of soup, assailer of ale…”

“Shut it,” says Valka.

“Yet was undooooone,” croons Oddi, “by a dozen minutes’ dread delay!”

“You are a terrible skald and you will die alone.”

Oddi sniffs.

“I will die in bed, thank you,” he says. “That’s a bard’s prerogative.”

“I just can’t stand waiting on two old men to finish arguing before they’ll let us go do something useful!”

“Useful?” says Oddi. “I thought this was just a raid.”

“Raiding is useful!”

“Please,” says Oddi. “Who is it this time?”

“The Rakni,” snarls Valka. “For killing my cousin Hradi.”

“Who died when they raided us, because we…?”

“We raided their cattle,” says Valka, “because they—”

“Yes, yes,” says Oddi. “It’s all vengeance for something. But what’s the point of it all?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Are we not the greatest warriors in the world?” asks Oddi, with another strum on his lyre.

“Of course we are,” says Valka. “That’s why the Rakni don’t stand a chance.”

“I don’t mean just the Nokkvi,” says Oddi. “I mean all of us, all the clans! When Hragrim united us, did we not fight our way to the very gates of Tartessos?”

“I dunno, did we?”

“Yes! We did!” says Oddi. “Don’t you remember the Ballad of Hragrim the Mighty? He defeated a Tartessian minotaur in single combat, only to perish of his wounds?”

Valka looks at him blankly.

“I sang this one last week!” says Oddi, throwing his slender hands in the air.

“I must have been doing something else,” says Valka with a smirk.

Oddi rolls his eyes.

“I bet you were.”

“So what’s your point?”

“My point is that we’re wasting our time raiding each other over cousins and cattle,” says Oddi. “But united, with Auros’ blessing, we could conquer the world!”

“You’re a dreamer,” says Valka, rising. “Looks like they’re done. Let’s get this over with so I can go kill some cousins and grab some cattle.”

“Of course,” says Oddi. “And when you get back, I’ll be the one who has to make it sound brave and daring.”

“It will be!” snaps Valka.

Valka’s father, Chief Skardi, strides over to her. Grimolf trails after him, still talking, but the chief ignores him.

“Valka,” says her father.

His voice sounds conversational, but he projects it so it booms throughout the hall. An old bard’s trick. Out of the corner of her eye, Valka sees Oddi nod in approval.

Valka is her father’s only child, and she doesn’t mind performing her role—as long as it’s something she was going to do anyway.

“Lord father,” says Valka, loudly and clearly.

Her father lays a hand on her shoulder. He is one of the few men in the clan who looks down when he looks her in the eye.

“May the blessings of the gods go with you,” he says. “May they guide your rudders and fill your sails. Bring ruin on our enemies and glory to our clan, and dedicate your victories to Auros!”

A cheer goes up, and Valka joins it. All the gods are sacred to her people, but the God of War most of all.

Her father puts one strong arm around her shoulder.

“Come,” he says. “I will walk you to the boats.”

Valka keeps smiling, but this is troubling. Ordinarily the chief dispatches the warriors from his seat of power, and the noncombatants see them off at the dock.

They leave the hall, squinting in the sunlight. Her warriors are readying the boats—one longship for the warriors, and one flat-bottomed barge to carry cattle and other spoils.

“What is it, father?” asks Valka.

He stops and turns to her, his face lined with worry.

“It’s Grimolf,” he says. “I’m worried he may no longer be content with meddling.”

“What does that mean?”

Grimolf has been part of the clan for years now, ever since he left his home clan of Isgerd and married Valka’s aunt Luta. But Luta drowned in a storm before they had any children, and Grimolf has been living among the Nokkvi ever since—legally entitled to stay, but with no real bonds of kinship. Valka does not trust him, and he has quarreled with her father’s leadership far too frequently—especially for an outsider.

“Some of the young warriors have been listening to him,” says her father. “You can guess who.”

“Didrik,” spits Valka. “And his worthless kin. I’m still not going to marry him, father.”

Her father holds up a hand, smiling.

“I wasn’t going to ask again,” he says. He rubs his jaw theatrically. “Your answer last time was quite clear.”

His expression darkens.

“But I do need you to do something for me,” he says.

“You know I’ll do anything for you,” says Valka. “Anything but marriage, anyway.”

“I need you to win,” says her father. “In spectacular fashion, if possible. I need to show the clan that my leadership is strong, and that you, not Didrik, are the future of Nokkvi.”

“I was planning on doing that anyway,” says Valka. “I won’t let you down.”

“Of course you won’t,” says her father. “Be well. Gods go with you.”

“You too,” says Valka. “Watch your back.”

Her father nods, and Valka walks down to the waiting ships.

It is night, and Valka and her dozen warriors have only the stars and the moon to see by. They grounded their boats up the coast, with a skeleton crew to guard them, and now they’re approaching the Rakni home village on foot in the dark. It is not Valka’s first raid on the Rakni, and she knows the terrain.

They do not speak. They all know the plan. Valka is the seniormost, and she will lead most of the warriors in a direct attack on the Rakni fighters. A few of the raiders will hang back, free the cattle from their pen, and stampede them back toward the boats.

Valka and her warriors can’t hope to win a pitched battle against the whole clan. This is just a raid. The goal is to occupy them long enough to get the cattle to the boats, then escape.

As they near the village, Valka holds up a hand, and her warriors halt behind her.

“Something’s wrong,” she whispers.

Valka’s second in command, her cousin Svala, approaches.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Not sure,” says Valka. “Just… feels wrong.”

“You want to call it off?” asks Svala. “I trust your instincts. If it feels wrong, it’s wrong.”

Valka thinks of her father back at home, awaiting a victory to put Grimolf and Didrik in their place.

“No,” she says. “But let’s keep our eyes open.”

The sky ahead of them lightens with the glow of Rakni home-fires. Finally, just before her warriors crest the ridge above the village, Valka realizes what’s wrong.

It’s too bright. There shouldn’t be that many fires in the village of the Rakni. Someone else—

Then they see it, and it’s too late. There are eight or ten tents pitched around the Rakni village, each big enough for half a dozen warriors. And above them, plainly visible in the firelight, are the banners of the Rakni’s guests, a black raven on a red field.

“Isgerd,” breathes Valka.

Grimolf’s home clan. Here, with the Rakni. Next to her, Svala swears.

“Back to the boats,” Valka says quietly. “Back to the boats, now. They knew we were coming. This is a trap.”

Then a horn blows, and another, and it is too late. Warriors, Rakni and Isgerd together, swarm from the great hall and rush from their tents.

“Fight your way out!” shouts Valka. “Try to stick together. Back to the boats!”

Their enemies are all around them. Valka swings her axe, dealing glancing blows to clear a path. Her warriors acquit themselves well, each accounting for two or three of the enemy. But there are too many. One by one, her warriors fall around her.

“Take a few warriors and break through,” shouts Svala beside her. “The rest of us will hold them off.”

Valka’s axe bites deep into one of the Isgerd, who falls in a spray of blood.

“Like hell,” snarls Valka. “You go. I’ll stay behind.”

“Your father needs you!” says Svala. “Grimolf could be behind this. Go!”

Damn.

“Gods go with you,” says Valka.

“You too!”

Then Valka points to the four nearest warriors and gives the order to charge—away from the Rakni village, back to the boats.

They break through the enemy and out into the darkness, leaving the sound of battle behind. Valka has never run from battle before, a feeling like the taste of ashes.

She and her warriors run as quickly as they dare, with only the stars to see by. But the sky lightens ahead of them, and it’s wrong, all wrong. Gods, how did it come to this?

The boats are burning, surrounded by dark figures and bodies on the ground. Her rear guard, and an ambush party. She growls, deep in her throat. But then one of the dark figures shouts and points, and the shadows move toward them.

“Go!” says one young man. Traggvi, is it? Troggvi? “We’ll hold them, like Svala did. You go. Go home, Valka. For the clan.”

Gods. The only survivor. She’ll be lucky if her father doesn’t exile her. But someone has to know. Someone has to know what the Isgerd and the Rakni have done.

“What’s your name?” asks Valka.

“Troggvi Ereksson,” he says.

She looks to her other three companions, and each says their name in turn. Harkvald. Ingrid. Sanni.

“Fight hard,” she says. “Die well. I’ll see that you’re remembered, and that you’re avenged. You and all the others.”

Grim nods all around. Then four warriors turn to face the oncoming enemy, while Valka, who is supposed to be the best of them, slinks into the darkness of the forest.

Valka stands for a moment on the last ridge, taking in the sight of the Nokkvi home village. After a month in the wilderness, she is home.

Then she sees that her father’s personal banner no longer flies above the great hall. Didrik’s hangs in its place, with Grimolf’s beside it in a place of honor. So.

She is leaner, but not starving. Dying for a sip of ale, but she has managed to get enough water at least. And she is angry, angry beyond measure or reason.

She walks into the village in her ragged clothing, her axe slung on her back. People call out her name, but she ignores them. They begin to follow her, until half the village is trailing her up the hill. Someone sprints to the great hall to spread the news. To warn them, presumably.

Valka walks up the steps to the great hall and shoves the massive oaken doors open.

Didrik stands up from his place on the seat of honor. Grimolf rises beside him. Off to one side, Oddi grips his lyre and gapes at her. Around the room she sees envoys from half a dozen clans, no doubt here to curry favor with what was evidently Nokkvi’s new lord.

“What in the gods’ name is this?” asks Valka. “Where is my father?”

“You’re alive!” says Grimolf. “P—praise the gods, we thought you were—”

“Shut up,” says Valka.

“You will treat my chief advisor with respect,” says Didrik. But his eyes dart from side to side, unsure where the people’s loyalty lies.

“My father,” says Valka. “Where?”

“He’s dead,” says Oddi, in a loud voice. “He fell ill quite suddenly after we heard news of your, ah, defeat. Didrik was elected by the clan.”

She’d known. Some part of her had hoped he was merely in exile, overthrown by some trickery, but she’d known as soon as she saw Didrik’s banner that her father would never have yielded.

“He was heartbroken to lose you,” says Grimolf. “And who can blame him? If only he could see you now!”

Garbage. She does not believe it. Her father was stronger than that.

“I said shut your mouth,” says Valka. She turns to the young man standing by the throne. “Chief Didrik, is it? You gonna let your advisor here speak for you?”

“I trust his counsel,” says Didrik quietly, stepping between her and Grimolf. “You should too.”

“Really!” snaps Valka. “And did he counsel you about the Isgerd warriors waiting to ambush us at the Rakni home village?”

Her audience turns toward Grimolf. Didrik’s eyes go wide.

“The… the Isgerd?” stammers Grimolf. “But, but, why would they—”

“They knew we were coming,” says Valka. “Rakni and Isgerd both. They were waiting for us. For me. And because of that, a dozen good warriors are dead, my cousins and kin among them. They burned our boats. And yes, I fled.”

There are mutterings at that, darkened faces and darker words.

“I fled,” she says loudly, “at the insistence of my warriors, to make sure that the treachery that put the Isgerd in our path would be punished. I didn’t run from that battle. I ran toward this one.”

“But how could they have found out?” asks Oddi, loudly. “Who would have told them?”

Gods, it’s good when someone has your back.

“A kinsman might have told them,” says Valka. “Maybe a treacherous kinsman who sought to unseat my father and replace him with someone more easily manipulated.”

“Excuse me!” bellows Grimolf. “That’s, that’s preposterous. I would never—”

Valka draws her axe.

“Chief Didrik,” she says. “I challenge—”

“I yield,” says Didrik quickly. He draws his axe and tosses it aside.

“What?” says Valka.

“What?” spits Grimolf.

Didrik removes the chief’s bear-skin cloak and sets it on the throne.

“I will not spill honest blood for a traitor’s lies,” snarls Didrik. “Mine or hers.”

“This is insane,” says Grimolf. “She brings, what? Her word? Listen to her! Her raid failed, her warriors died, and now she seeks to, to slander me, and unseat you with lies! Don’t you see?”

There is quiet in the hall.

“I’d take Valka’s word over yours,” says Oddi, and there’s a murmur of agreement in the hall. “She can’t keep a secret worth a damn. Everyone knows that.”

“Thanks, Oddi,” mutters Valka.

“Grimolf’s lying,” says Didrik. “I know my word’s worth less than Valka’s, but it’s the truth.” He turns to Valka. “He told me that with you dead… your father wouldn’t last long. I could claim I didn’t know what he meant, but I did. And I let him do it.”

Valka’s vision goes red, and her knuckles whiten on her axe-handle.

“He yielded,” Oddi reminds her, quietly.

“I am at your mercy,” says Didrik, proud but resigned. “I knew what he was doing, and I believed it was best for the clan. But if I’d known about the Isgerd, if I’d known you were alive… I would never have dared. That’s the truth.”

He kneels for a moment, head bowed, awaiting execution.

“Go,” says Valka. “Take whoever you’re taking and provisions for a week. The truth earns you a graceful exit. But if I ever see your face again, I will split it in half.”

Didrik nods, gathers up his axe, and walks out, leaving no one between Valka and Grimolf.

The old man drops to his knees, blubbering, as Valka walks toward him.

“Please,” he says, snot and tears streaming down his face. “It’s all a misunderstanding, I, I told the Isgerd to double-cross the Rakni, but they must have—”

“SHUT UP!” bellows Valka. “Just shut your mouth! No more lies!”

Her axe is heavy in her hand.

“I’ll go into exile,” he whispers. “You’ll never see me again. I swear it, on, on Auros’ beard—”

“No,” says Valka. “Don’t. Don’t even speak his name.”

“Please,” sobs Grimolf.

Valka screams in rage and cleaves the man’s head from his shoulders.

There are gasps in the crowd. Oddi looks away. Valka watches in grim satisfaction as Grimolf’s head bounces away, his body collapses like a doll, and his life’s blood pumps from the stump of his neck, all over the floor of the great hall. She has killed more people than she can count, but only ever in the chaos of battle. She has never had cause to slow down and watch it happen.

“I spill this traitor’s blood in Auros’ name,” she says. The blood on her axe-head begins to glow, weaving itself into the delicate knotwork of the axe, binding her to what she has done.

She turns to the assembled crowd, whose eyes are wide. The weight of her crime settles on her.

“Your chief has yielded to me,” she says. “But that does not make me chief. His predecessor was my father, but that does not make me chief. And if I am not your chief then I am a murderer—but that doesn’t make me chief, either. I’ll accept the consequences.”

She looks around the grim, quiet faces, and mourns for the happy village she left behind, for her father’s gentle hand at the tiller.

“What makes a chief is a vote of the clan,” she says. “This is a dark day, and you must choose who will lead you to a brighter one.”

“I nominate Valka Skardistotter,” says Oddi.

“Seconded!” yells someone.

“Does anyone else wish to put a name forward?” asks Oddi.

There is silence, and Oddi nods.

“Then I choose Valka!” he shouts.

“Valka!” shout the others. “Valka! Valka!”

Valka holds up a hand.

“I am honored,” she says. “You are my people, and I would do anything for you. But know this: I will make our clan no friends. We are weakened by our losses, but the betrayal of the Isgerd cannot go unpunished.”

Oddi catches her eye, frowning.

“And it will not stop with them,” says Valka. “While the clans throw our lives away on squabbles over who gets to sit in the biggest chair, our enemies across the sea grow stronger. While we kill each other over cousins and cattle, they sharpen their knives. No longer!”

Oddi smiles now, and backs her up with a strum or two on his lyre. Valka half-recognizes the tune.

“You!” shouts Valka, pointing around the room. “You envoys who came to curry favor with the new lord of Nokkvi, and ignored the craven treachery that gave him that title! I see you!”

The envoys have backed to the edge of the hall, but the Nokkvi will not yet let them leave.

“Isgerd and Rakni, you will pay in blood no matter what you do,” she says. “The rest of you—Harruk, Temni, whoever else is skulking around! Your lords face a simple choice: join me in vengeance, or die. Anyone who fights us is our enemy. Noncombatants will be spared. Clans who surrender will earn a place at my side. Go and tell them.”

The envoys hurry out, faces grim.

“We will feast tonight,” says Valka. “To celebrate our restoration.”

Valka turns to the throne and the mess on the ground in front of it.

“Hang up that bearskin,” she says, to the members of what is now her clan. “That was my father’s. I aim to be lord of far more than Nokkvi before this is over. And clean this up.”

She gestures to Grimolf’s body. But then she looks down at her axe, where Grimolf’s blood has taken up permanent residence as a dull red glow. A blessing? A curse? Whatever it is, she’ll carry it with her forever.

“Wait,” she says. “Give the body to the dogs. Send the head to his kin among the Isgerd, with my personal seal. And the blood…”

She bends down and looks at her reflection in the congealing pool of red.

“Leave it,” she says. “Let it stain. I’ll rest my feet on it.”

She sits uncomfortably on her father’s throne, and Oddi stands beside her.

“I’m sorry about your father,” he says. “We all knew it stank, but with Didrik’s goons—”

“I know,” says Valka. “It’s alright. I don’t blame you, or anyone else in the clan. I don’t even blame Didrik, not really. He saw his chance, and he took it. It was Grimolf’s work, and he’s taken care of.”

“It may take the people some time to trust that you won’t be rooting out more traitors,” says Oddi. “A feast is a good idea. Unity among the clans… is a better one.”

Valka rolls her eyes.

“The unity was your idea, if you’ll recall.”

“And it’s a good one,” says Oddi. “That’s why I suggested it.”

Valka nods, a dismissal. But Oddi is still looking at her.

“Oh, fine,” she says. “Get it over with.”

Oddi smiles, and begins to sing the Ballad of Hragrim the Mighty.

Grand Hall of the Clan Council

Present day

“So there we were!” shouts Valka, waving a leg of lamb. “Surrounded by wolf-changers, pressed against the ice cliffs, with nothing more than our weapons and our wits!”

Valka sits at a table in the enormous Grand Hall that long ago replaced Nokkvi’s modest great hall, surrounded by kin and friends. Sitting never really suited her, but she makes an exception for good food and pleasant company. Her feet rest on the faded bloodstain on the stone floor, preserved when the new hall was built on the foundations of the old.

“Hey!” shouts Oddi from down the table. Her voice has finally penetrated the din of the hall at mealtime. “Hey! That’s my job, damn it! I wrote a song and everything!”

“Well, unless you can sing and chew at the same time,” says Valka, taking a bite, “I sugghesht hyou eat quinkly!”

“Gods, you’re a slob!” yells Oddi.

“I am a chief!” yells Valka back, and her people cheer her.

There are three long tables in the room, seating nearly her whole clan and the emissaries of a dozen others, assembled through diplomacy and kinship and conquest. The clans are not united, not yet, but they are closer than they have ever been. If her father could see her now!

She looks to the side, where young Aram sits with one of his aunties, listening attentively to everything at once. Aram. Her son. Eight years old, now—born on a longship, with eyes the color of stormclouds that always seem to find Valka in a crowd. If her father could see…

Valka finishes her story, and the diners lapse into a happy din of chewing sounds and cross-talk.

Valka sighs and fidgets with her axe-handle under the table. She knows it is hard for Aram and all the rest when she is away on campaign. She knows, too, that if she falls in battle now, her bid to unite the clans may fall apart. So she stays here, much of the time, and tells stories of old victories while others go out to win new ones in her name.

But gods, the waiting is hell. She would rather go into combat herself and face mortal danger than wait around for news of it. At least the rest of the clan doesn’t seem to feel the wait too badly. As far as they’re concerned, her cause cannot fail. Gods grant they’re right.

Finally, as the meal is wrapping up, the gates of the Grand Hall open with a blast of cold air, and one of her sentries rushes inside. She composes herself and stands.

“News?” she asks, loud enough to echo through the whole hall.

The sentry rushes up and kneels, but Valka gestures for the woman to stand.

“Word from the fleet,” says the sentry. “Victory.”

“Victory!” repeats Valka, and the whole hall takes up the cry.

Relief washes over her. The fleet had gone out to engage the Isgerd, the only navy left that could rival hers. Valka’s forces had numbers and the blessing of the gods, but it was no sure thing. She exhales, and feels as though she has been holding her breath for a week.

Then the doors blow open of their own accord and the cold night air whips in. But the wind stirs up the torches and the hearthfire instead of buffeting them, filling the room with light and heat.

“Valka,” says a voice.

A figure of iron and flame walks through the doorway, an apparition out of darkest myth. The thing is twelve feet tall, and it ducks to fit through. The figure gestures, and people and tables glide gently to the side of the hall, the table legs scraping on stone. The old, old blood beneath Valka’s feet looks as red as the day she spilled it.

Valka’s warriors scramble to their feet, weapons at the ready. Valka draws her axe—then sees that it is glowing brightly, the same glow that fills it when she spills blood.

She examines the figure. A great beard of flame. A chain of crowns…

Valka drops to her knees.

“Lord Auros!” she proclaims, and the rest of her people kneel as well.

“Rise,” says Auros—and it is Auros, the God of War himself, twice her height and wreathed in majesty and flame.

Valka stands, and looks her god in his fiery eyes.

“You have won many victories in my name,” booms Auros. “Exposed lies. Routed weakness. Made your people strong and your enemies fearful. You bear my blessing in your hand, and worship me with every swing.”

Valka nods. What does one say to that?

“I call upon you now to join a greater contest,” says Auros. “You will be the Champion of War, strong and proud and deadly.”

Valka draws her axe and holds it in front of her, her hand high on the handle.

“I swore myself to you a long time ago.”

Auros snorts, smoke pouring from his nostrils.

“What about my people?” asks Valka. “Am I leaving them behind?”

“Your followers,” says Auros, “and more, in every clan, who do not yet follow you—I name them Valknir, the people of Valka. You will leave them, yes, to fight for me. But you will return, and they will not forget you.”

Valknir? Gods.

“Valknir!” shouts someone, and every voice in the hall takes up the cry. “Valknir! Valknir!”

Valka holds up a hand for quiet.

“Lord Auros, may I set a few things in order?”

The hulking being, the god standing in her hall, nods.

“Aram!” she yells, and the boy squirms out of his auntie’s arms and runs to her.

She kneels down and hugs him tightly.

“I’m going away for a while, just like when I go on campaign.”

“You’ll come back?” says Aram, clear-eyed. He is no stranger to farewells, but now he is old enough to think of death, to glance at it out of the corner of his eye and wonder when it will come for those he loves.

Valka looks to her towering god, the embodiment of chaos and strife. She thinks of the bloodstain on the floor, the bodies her axe has torn apart, the close calls and injuries she’s escaped.

“I’ll come back,” she says, and rises. “You do what your aunties say, just like always. Learn new things. Hear?

He nods and steps back, and she addresses the hall.

“My people,” she says. “Valknir.”

“Valknir!” comes the cry, and now she can see that Oddi is leading it. Of course he is.

“I’ve left you before,” she says. “This is no different. You know who’s in charge. You know what to do. You will prevail!”

“Come,” says Auros. “It’s time.”

Valka looks at Aram one last time and nods, and the God of War and his champion vanish in a whirl of flame.

Kelly Digges is a narrative designer and creative consultant for games, with 90 credits across more than 50 products for Magic: The Gathering and other games. Find him on Twitter at @kellydigges.

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Story

The Trial Begins

Overview

The stage is set for a divine contest. Each god has now chosen a mortal champion: Light, Death, Magic, Deception, Nature and War, and each has proven their worth. Now The Grand Arena builds in anticipation as each treacherous trial is ready to be announced. The gods always have some surprises up their sleeves, and this is no exception...

The Story

by Kelly Digges

An account by Temnys of Thebia, Chronicler of the Trial

Grand Arena of the Gods

The Grand Arena of the Gods, shining and golden, sprang into existence less than a week ago. It seems like it has always been here.

Within the gleaming confines of the Arena, a spectacle unfolds unlike any in living memory. It is a beautiful day, of course. How can it be otherwise, if all six gods so will it?

Seven columns ring the arena, with an eighth in the very center. Between the seven columns are six entryways—six portals, or windows, or paths, from the hallowed Citadel of the Gods to the Arena.

(This should be impossible, because the Arena is also ringed by the audience. Seated among them, one feels that the benches are behind the columns. But across the Arena the seating is invisible. Between the columns, all that can be seen is swirling mist and glimpses of the unimagined. This is true at every point around the Arena.)

One by one, the Champions enter the Arena, to the roar of the crowd. Where did the crowd come from? Were they here a moment ago? Or were they plucked from their homes, brought here by the gods, to witness this moment? Will they remember it, later? Will I? Or will it seem like some wondrous dream?

Lysander enters first, the Champion of Light. The glare of the sun highlights every one of the gold-filled cracks that mark where he was sundered and reassembled. He radiates calm, dignity, and purpose, and carries a spear infused with holy light. He walks to the central column and turns to the crowd.

To Lysander’s right is Pallas, the Champion of Magic, surrounded by swirling motes of arcane energy. They wear a confident smile and a flowing robe whipped by a wind that comes from nowhere, and they carry their wand casually to the side. Pallas takes their place beside Lysander.

Next is Selena, the Champion of Nature, chin held high with pride. She walks with the deadly grace of a jungle cat. Her bow is stowed on her back and her quiver at her side, and the silvery light that glints off the arrowheads seems to be moonlight, not sunlight.

Valka, Champion of War, strides into the Arena before Selena has quite taken her place.She bears the tattoos of her people, and she carries an axe that glows with a baleful red light. Valka waves to the crowd and smiles the smile of someone who expects to be magnanimous in victory.

After Valka comes Neferu, the Champion of Death. She neither smiles nor frowns, and seems to take no notice of the crowd. She walks toward the central column, one eye glowing green, with an Anubian khopesh at her hip. Very few can see from the stands that here, in the divine sands of the Arena, she leaves two sets of footprints, just slightly offset.

Last into the Arena, between Neferu and Lysander, is Orfeo, Champion of Deception. He hides his face behind a domino mask. A chain, wrapped around one arm, trails behind him and vanishes into purple mist, tethered to something unseen. No one will be able to agree, later, about the details—the color of his hair, the shape of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. Did he slink into the Arena, as though already guilty of something? Or was he smug, insufferable, grinning? Perhaps it depends on where one was sitting.

The champions convene at the central column, meeting one another for the first time. Their words are only for one another—and for me, the Chronicler.

“This should be fun,” says Pallas.

“For some of us, at least,” says Orfeo.

“May the bravest and best of us find victory,” says Lysander.

“Now that, I’ll drink to,” says Valka.

“Let’s just get this over with,” says Neferu.

Selena says nothing, her keen eyes seeming to take in the others along with the rest of the landscape.

After the champions have taken their places, the gods emerge in their footsteps. There is no cheering now. Only a collective gasp, and then a hush. Even those who have seen the gods before have never seen this—all six at once, in a place just a step removed from divinity.

The gods do not enter the Arena, but halt at its edge. It is best not to look too closely at them. Not in this place. Here, where the mortal realm of Eucos is allowed to brush against the Citadel of the Gods, they are just slightly too real.

Thaeriel, God of Light, stands first among equals. His brother Elyrian, God of Magic, stands at his right hand—unremarkable, given their frequent alliance in bringing order and learning to the world. But to Thaeriel’s left stands Ludia, Goddess of Deception, the Lady of Shadows—a lurking presence that Thaeriel does not acknowledge.

“Welcome to the Trial of the Gods,” booms Thaeriel. His voice is thunder, rolling across the Arena to reverberate in every heart. “Six champions. Six trials. To the winners, the glory.”

“Each champion will face a trial created by a different god,” says Elyrian. “No collusion has been tolerated. Champions may ask clarifying questions.”

“Enough!” shouts Auros, God of War, in a voice that shakes the ground. “I will issue my challenge!”

Thaeriel nods.

“Lysander of Parthon!” bellows Auros, and Lysander stands to face him. “Your trial is to retrieve the Golden Pear of Tartessos and bring it here. It is guarded, but that should be no problem for a man of your capabilities. You have fought Tartessians before, after all.”

Fought them and died, he does not say—and if Lysander feels the barb, he does not show it.

“Must I defeat the guardians?” asks Lysander.

“Your task is to retrieve the Pear,” rumbles Auros. “Perhaps you could do so by subterfuge. But I doubt your high-minded Lord of Light would approve.”

“I accept,” says Lysander.

“Neferu of the Red Sands,” says Thaeriel. “You will ascend the First Pillar of Creation and defeat the dragon that lives atop it. You need not kill it, only subdue it.”

Neferu’s eyes narrow.

“Will it come down to face me?” she asks.

“It will not,” says Thaeriel.

“And where is this pillar?”

“At the center of the world,” Thaeriel replies.

“The purported center of the world,” says Pallas quietly, “is deep in the Thanakris Desert, although of course that’s ridiculous. Penthileus the Younger proved that Eucos is round almost a thousand years ago using the shadows of—”

“Pallas,” says Elyrian, so that only Pallas and Neferu can hear him. “Stop helping.”

“As you wish.”

Pallas winks at Neferu, an inscrutable gesture which she ignores.

“I accept,” says Neferu.

Malissus steps forward, and her voice sends a shiver down the spine of every mortal who hears it.

“Pallas,” says Malissus. “You will descend into the Underworld and face champions of my choosing. Defeat them, or remain there forever.”

“Fun,” says Pallas. “And they are, ah, defeatable?”

“Yes,” says Malissus. “Even in death, they may fall.”

“Well, that’s something. No further questions. I accept.”

“Selena of the Arkmonian Guard,” says Elyrian. “You will enter Antemion’s Hall of Mirrors and face that which dwells within.”

“And that is?” asks Selena.

“There is only one enemy within the Hall,” says Elyrian. “Discerning its nature is part of the test. Defeat it and return safely.”

Selena nods.

“I accept.”

Aeona speaks, and her voice carries the chill of winter.

“Orfeo of Ronella,” says Aeona. “A great hydra dwells inside the Arkmonian Wood. Slay it, or perish. The other inhabitants of the Wood will not hinder you, but you must fight alone.”

“Refreshingly straightforward,” says Orfeo. “I accept.”

Ludia flutters her fan and steps forward, letting the shadows around her drop away ever so slightly.

“Valka, Grand Chief of the Valknir,” she says, lending that last a word a mocking lilt. “You will enter the Cave of Lethenon and face the shadow within. Kill it, skin it, and return with its tenebrous hide.”

“Uh, okay,” says Valka. She hefts her axe. “Pretty sure this can cut through anything. I’m in.”

“You accept the challenge?” says Ludia.

Valka rolls her eyes.

“I accept,” she says, with mock seriousness.

“The trials have been issued,” says Thaeriel. “Complete them and return here within one turning of the moon. You may accept aid from the faithful on your journey. For the trials themselves, you will act alone, or forfeit.”

He has not spoken of rewards for those who complete their trials, nor said whether a single winner will be named. He has left many things unsaid, in the burnished light of the Arena.

Beside him, Elyrian and Ludia keep their secrets. Across the Arena, the other three gods stand together in barely concealed animosity.

Thaeriel spreads his arms wide.

“Let the Trial of the Gods begin!”

Hello fellow mortals... it’s Andrea Davis, Lead Game Designer, checking in.

This chapter brings the Trial of the Gods preview story to a close. We’ve met six champions, and have been reintroduced to six gods. Now we set them loose to conquer trials, both literal and ethereal, in a divine contest.

Who will succeed, and who will fail? Who will ultimately be declared the winner of the Trials, and what will that mean for the six domains and the gods that rule them? Those are stories for the future.

I wanted to take a moment to give one final note of thanks to Kelly Digges, whose work in our game’s creative redevelopment has been outstanding. It was a real joy creating these characters together, and seeing him breathe life into the world of Eucos has been a real treat.

We hope you enjoyed these chapters of the story, and hope you will join us in creating the next one. Trial of the Gods goes on sale soon, and the fate of these champions will be in your hands!

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Trial of the Gods

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Mythic Variants

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Trial of the Gods

What’s new

Trailer

POWERFUL CARDS

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The Story so far...

New Characters

Mythic Variants

Promo Cards

Purchase in game

New Cards