She stirred beside him. Her fingers brushed his chin. 'I wanted to stay alongside my sister.'
'Do you still?' He paused. 'She's not even the same person.'
But by now Eir was asleep, and he didn't blame her.
*
Later still, seated around a table with Rika's entourage and the female god-thing, Brynd finally composed his thoughts. As commander of the military, he still had a job to do, and forces to command. Whether or not he followed Imperial law, he could see himself writing a history of his own. The weight of decisions burdened him – his mind had already been taken to breaking point because of the war, but now… now was a time for rebuilding.
According to orders, he ought to have had Rika arrested, but in present circumstances, that didn't seem to matter so much. Besides, Artemisia had broken the arm of the last guard who had tried to restrain her – so tough measures didn't seem all that prudent while he was still weighing up his options. Besides, he did not trust Urtica.
'Here's what I propose,' Rika announced, placing both hands on the table.
'What you propose?' Brynd echoed. 'You're currently a prisoner of the Empire.'
'You already know me, commander, so you can rely on my word.' Rika explained the events of their capture, and their journey to Villiren.
'Just tell me what you propose,' Brynd interrupted, 'and I'll tell you if I can trust in it.'
'I want to detach Villiren from the Empire, for the military here to switch allegiance to me. We need to take Villjamur – but then comes the difficult part. We must form an alliance with the alien nations in Artemisia's world, allowing their gradual repopulation within the Boreal Archipelago, living alongside human and rumel. It is only when we accommodate Artemisia's culture that we will have the resources to resist any further attacks. Can you seriously tell me we'd all survive on our own?'
Brynd replayed the horrors of the war through his mind.
'The main gateway through which the Cirrips – what you call the Okun – arrived has been disabled temporarily,' Artemisia added. 'They may repair them soon enough. We have an unspecified amount of time to act.'
'Essentially,' Brynd said, 'you're suggesting our cooperation is your only hope?'
'We are each other's hope,' Rika argued.
'As I have been saying,' Artemisia intervened. 'Let us seek peaceful solutions from now on. Peaceful integration is the only answer.'
This was a head-fuck, all right. Did Brynd even have a choice? 'It could take a while to get things straight,' he said eventually. 'The city's a wreck. The army is depleted. We'll need to rebuild. Yet you just plan to take Villjamur? Do you have any idea how well protected that city is?'
'Once the alliance has been declared,' Artemisia suggested, 'I may well be of assistance in that matter.'
*
When nothing more could be said, they left Brynd alone with his thoughts. Left in solitude, he went over to the window overlooking the city. There were purple-blue skies to the north, something he'd not seen in a long while, and a warm breeze gusted over Villiren – it seemed like an omen of what he'd just learned. Pyre smoke trailed up from distant quarters of the city, and seabirds had returned to scavenge. You won't find much there.
Brynd strode out of the obsidian room and went back to his private chamber. The place was still a mess after Nelum's attempt to assassinate him, though at least the bloodstains had been removed. Exhausted, he collapsed on the bed, breathed deeply and pressed his head into his hands.
There was probably no choice, he realized. What Rika suggested made some sense, though pulling apart the Empire which he had served all his life felt instinctively wrong. But these were different times, and the islands faced change whether they liked it or not. If he was to make a beneficial impact on the Boreal Archipelago, it would be by helping in its reconstruction – though he had no idea of the outcome after alien cultures had been introduced. And after the battle raging across Villiren, he felt he could take on anything now.
Shaping cultures, Brynd thought, finally closing his eyes. This must be what it's like to be a god.
FIFTY-FIVE
Voices were the first thing to return to the abandoned streets. Conversation, everywhere more conversation, people talking about what had happened, what to do, where had so-and-so gone, have you seen my husband, my son, my daughter? People were coming back to the city, finding their homes no longer there, whole streets and entire districts had vanished.
Marysa stepped carefully through the rubble-littered streets. Cultists had begun a clear-up, and uniformed personnel trotted everywhere, carrying their weapons. Now and then there'd be an alien scream as one of the Okun was found hiding in the darkness, and was slaughtered. Such incidents made the return to their homes more frightening than a relief for the people of Villiren.
She proceeded with purpose, now and then glancing at the map she kept in her pocket, but it was of little use. She was heading past the whalebone archways and the giant Onyx Wings, towards the little bistro that Jeryd and she had agreed would be a good place to meet after the conflict.
A lot of things had happened underground which she now wanted to forget – they didn't actually happen to her, just to others, but that didn't make the experiences any more agreeable. How could people be so cruel to one another in a time of desperation? While the majority felt solidarity, there seemed to be a predatory few who would ruin the lives of others in fulfilling their own selfish needs and desires. Now and then humans would stare at her and shout abuse for her being a rumel, but she couldn't blame them because of the alien redskins that had been part of the invasion.
People feared only what they did not understand.
*
It was now some time around mid-morning, and she stopped to watch several cultists use a cone-like device to shatter rubble. Even they themselves seemed surprised at the effectiveness of the contraptions.
Paths were slowly carved, gaps in the snow-covered city forming, allowing people to pass through. Horses, and other weird beasts, were used to help cart away chunks of salvageable masonry. Already, useful items were being sold by quick-thinking traders. Makeshift irens sprang up, and soldiers and civilians gathered there, queues several people thick. All faces looked so tired, as if something had vanished from their existence, and they were now struggling to hold on.
Most of all, she hoped Jeryd was OK.
*
The shadow of the Wings seemed bolder than she could remember. War hadn't visited here, or destroyed buildings, but most were empty. In some cases, boards were already being lifted from the windows. And there was the bistro they had agreed to meet in, seemingly unscarred. She walked towards it, her belongings suddenly heavy across her shoulders.
She waited for him as sunlight skimmed off the cobbles, shading her eyes as she looked up and down the street.
Marysa waited for him. And she waited.
*
The red sun slouched across the sky, as more and more people sauntered past in front of her. She examined their faces eagerly to see if one might be her husband, then eventually she stopped looking, because the routine had become too depressing.
Please let Jeryd be OK.
A massive lump rose in her throat as she fingered the medallion he had given her. She looked up to see that the darkness of evening wasn't far away.
Sighing, Marysa pushed herself back out into the mainstream of the city, back to find somewhere to spend the night. She passed citizens huddling in blankets by the warmth of barrel-drum fires.
As agreed, she would return again tomorrow, to wait for Jeryd.
There was always tomorrow.
