Victor of Tucson

Victor and Valla watched the Glorious Ninth march away from the keep, a long column of armor-clad individuals wending its way east and north along the beach toward a gap in the hills where they’d turn toward the center of the contested lands. Victor let his gaze drift that way, proud of the clear air and bright sun in the vicinity; he’d been responsible for removing the sickly haze, allowing him to see the heavy curtain of mist that hung in the eastern sky so clearly. It was distant, days and days of travel away, but it was there. Even in the morning sunlight, he could make out the faint green glow of the Death Caster’s “veil star.”

“They’ll be all right.” Valla had mistaken Victor’s angry scowl for one of concern.

“Yeah. I just want to get these undead assholes out of here. It stresses me out to think he’s got an open portal there, but we don’t know what kinds of limitations he has on calling more troops through.”

“Limitations?”

“Remember what Victoria said? I mean about the portal repelling those beyond a certain threshold of power.”

“Oh, yes, I remember.” Valla frowned, watching the distant column of marching soldiers. “I hope Lam keeps a close eye on that woman.”

“Lam and Kethelket will both watch her. Kethelket won’t let her surprise him.”

Valla turned to lean an elbow on the parapet, looking more fully at Victor. “Did you suspect there are other limitations?”

“I suspect, but I don’t know. The System seems to have rules for this invasion. Hector already has far more troops than we do. Well, he did before the forest fire and our recent victories. Still, if he had the resources back home, would he be allowed to send out the call to bring another fifty thousand troops through? It doesn’t seem that would be fair, so would the System deny their passage through its portal? Of course, the System might consider us as part of Fanwath as a whole. It might think we could gather more troops if we tried our hand at diplomacy, begging the Ridonne or the free cities for aid.”

“Well, that’s what I’m getting at. We just don’t know. Hector might have already pulled through all the troops he has access to. We might be about to wrap this whole thing up.” Victor shrugged.

“I can see it’s the frustration of not knowing that’s bothering you. I suppose all we can do is find out, and that starts with you and me eating those apples.” She stepped close to him and gazed over the parapet at the waves crashing against the beach. She leaned her head against his arm and entwined her fingers with his. “Are you ready?”

Victor squeezed her hand and nodded, though she couldn’t see the gesture. “Yeah, let’s get this over with.” He led the way off the parapets, returning the salutes of the guards stationed on the wall. When they’d crossed the bailey into the inner courtyard, he saw Uvu reclining on the cobbles outside his travel home and felt a surge of fondness for the big cat. He was lying on his side, soaking in the sunlight, his head just at the foot of the steps leading up to the house. Victor wondered if, in his mind, he was guarding their home. “Good boy!” He squatted to scratch the lazy cat’s ear, eliciting a twitch and a partial yawn.

“He’s enjoying the sun.” Valla, too, paused to give the cat some affection, hugging him around the neck before following Victor up the steps and into the house. He turned and, pressing his finger to one of the runes next to the door, activated it with a trickle of Energy, securing the magical locks. A few minutes later, he and Valla were in his bedroom, kicking off their shoes, hanging up their armor and weapons, and then reclining on the bed, propped up by pillows, side by side.

“Hope these apples work fast. I mean, I hope they have a big effect, but we don’t lose weeks in the process.” Victor produced the two gold-wrapped fruits, handing one to Valla.

Valla lifted it, weighing it in one hand. “Do you remember the racial advancement rewards for sale in the Warlord’s token store?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Remember how he sold them in tiers—advanced, epic, legendary?”

“Oh, yeah. You’re wondering what tier these might fall under, huh?” Victor regarded the apple as Valla nodded. “Well, I guess we don’t get to know. If they’re only ‘improved’ or whatever, then it won’t affect me as much as it does you.”

“Well, I hope they’re potent, as you said. Then we’ll both make good strides.”

As he thought about her words, Victor nodded and stood up, moving to the foot of the bed. “I think I’ll lay on the floor. There’s no way my Alter Self spell will last through this process, and if this process does add a lot to my Quinametzin bloodline, I might grow even more. Don’t want to break the bed . . .”

“Okay, but I wasn’t trying to hint at that.” Valla began to run one of her sharp nails along the gold foil’s seam. “Ready?”

Victor grunted as he lay on the rug at the foot of the bed. “Ready.” He couldn’t see Valla any longer, but he heard her sharp inhalation and slight gasp. Peeling the foil from his own apple, he soon understood her reaction. It smelled amazing, bringing to mind every food Victor had ever loved—hot pancakes dripping with syrup, fresh, hot tortillas with his abuela’s homemade refries, albondigas sprinkled with fresh cilantro and lime juice; the images kept flashing through his mind with every tiny whiff of the apple’s potent vapors.

“Eat it quickly!” Valla called. “Its essence escapes with each second!” That was the last he heard from her before the tell-tale sound of teeth crunching into an apple came to him. Victor couldn’t argue, so he took a huge bite, ripping through almost half the apple with his powerful jaw and teeth. Of course, the smells only amplified with the fruit’s juice exploding in his mouth, and Victor almost lost himself in an ecstasy of pleasant tastes. It was sweet but also carried hidden depths of flavor, things his mind couldn’t immediately wrap around. He thought he tasted vanilla, and he’d try to focus on that flavor only to be swept away by something altogether different, like hints of rosemary or cinnamon.

Soon, he couldn’t focus on the flavors any longer because, as he swallowed down the second half of the apple, he became aware of the roiling ball of Energies in his stomach. He knew it was more than one type immediately. He recognized the pure natural Energy, the hot, metallic touch of a blood attunement, and the many biting flavors of elemental Energies. He was sure there were others. He even felt hints of spirit attunements—the cloying, cold fingers of fear, the hot fangs of rage, and something warm and pure that he couldn’t pin down. As he tried to examine those forces, turning his mind’s eye inward, wondering what the magical fruit was doing, they began propagating through his pathways and into his body, touching every cell. Victor’s awareness began to slip away, no matter how he scrabbled to hold on, to watch the process.

#

Ichtaca sat upon his carved-bone stool and looked into the red, sweating face of the youngster. “Mecati, can you hear me?” The girl shivered and shook, her brow furrowing and relaxing at odd intervals. She was deep in a fever dream, the poison coursing through her blood. Was what the father had said possible? A poisoned barb shot from the bow of a fey creature? The puckered, oozing wound looked plausible, but why hadn’t he brought the offending dart? It didn’t matter; whether he lied or told the truth, the solution was the same—this was Mecati’s time to earn her place among the Quinametzin. Whatever the source of the toxin, her fortitude must prevail against it.

Ichtaca took the cloth from the bowl of cold spring water and twisted most of the water out. Then he laid it upon her brow and tried again, speaking forcefully into her ear, letting his prodigious aura press against her, “Mecati, open your eyes.”

The girl’s eyes snapped open, glossy with fever, red veins standing out. She was still, though, observing, taking in her surroundings. “Healer?” Her use of his status was a good sign; she recognized him.

“It’s time to fight now, Mecati. You can’t let your body, strong as it is, do all the work. Turn your mind inward. Quinametzin need not fall prey to things as mundane as a toxin. It’s an invader in your system, and you can drive it out.”

The girl’s eyes darted from him to the window and back again, then she licked her dry, peeling lips. “How?” Her voice was hoarse, the breath pushing the word past her lips thready and weak. If she didn’t master the poison that rampaged through her veins, she’d be dead soon.

“How do you see your Core? How do you force your essence to bend to your will? The same way, Mecati! You are Quinametzin, and we do not suffer poison!” Her dark brows drew together as his words woke something in her, breaking through the fear and weakness, stirring her Quinametzin pride. “Good! You are above these things, are you not? Do you suffer as the small people do? Do you cry from hunger or whimper in fear of the dark?”

“No!” This time, though her voice cracked, Mecati spoke clearly.

“A Quinametzin worships no other. We do not seek salvation or guidance. We do not bend our knees. We do not tolerate invaders on our lands or in our bodies! Are you Quinametzin?”

Mecati’s teeth ground together, her lips pulled back in a fierce grimace as she scrunched her eyes tight, clearly struggling to do what he’d asked, to look inward, through her pathways and into her body, into her blood where the offending toxin must now lurk. Could she do it? Could she peer into herself in such a way? Could she use her will to drive her essence against the invading poison?

“You are one of the mighty, Mecati! You are one of the great ones, the rulers of these lands! Will you tolerate that poison in your blood?” Ichtaca slid off his stool and crawled onto the wooden cot, straddling the girl, placing his tattooed, fetish-bedecked hands on either side of her neck, pressing his hot, powerful flesh against hers. How far should he go to help her? Not far, he decided. This was a test for the girl, a rite of passage. He shouldn’t interfere much. Just a touch of essence to aid her weakened Core. He let the barest trickle bleed forth into her, and she began to tremble, no, vibrate! Her heels bounced up and down on the cot, her body convulsed and thrashed as her head bounced upon the pillow her mother had brought.

Despite her convulsions, Mecati’s brows stayed furrowed; her bared teeth maintained their grimacing snarl, and Ichtaca felt the heat from her body begin to radiate like a forge. “Good!” he growled, squeezing her shoulders in encouragement as he stood up. She’d found the path, and she was doing what she must. If he knew medicine, and he did, she’d soon be free of the toxin. She’d be exhausted but stronger for the ordeal. More importantly, she’d proven her worthiness to walk among her people. Ichtaca nodded firmly, then turned for the door; it was time to give the young Quinametzin’s parents the good news.

#

Valla drifted into nothingness. Though she opened her eyes wide and looked from left to right, up and down, she saw naught but blackness. Why did she have the sensation of drifting? Was it because she couldn’t feel anything beneath her? Nothing was under her feet, nothing beneath her back. When she moved her arms, she felt nothing. Could she even be sure she moved them? That thought brought brief panic, but she forced herself to calm. She must be dreaming or having some sort of vision. Hadn’t Victor described something of the sort?

She’d advanced her race several times but never experienced anything as he’d described. She’d never had a fruit like what she’d just eaten, however. It had been labeled as providing some sort of “evolution.” Was that hinting at a bloodline? Was she about to have a vision as Victor did when he’d learned of his Quinametzin heritage? Hope sprang into her heart, though she wasn’t sure she even had a heart. Was she breathing? Again, panic ran through her consciousness, but realizing it, she reasoned that she was at least thinking and feeling emotions. Would that happen if she didn’t exist any longer? Somehow, her consciousness was apart from her body, but that was all right. “Nothing to panic about,” she tried to speak, but she wasn’t sure it worked.

As she drifted and lost track of time, she let her mind run through all those things that weighed heavily upon her but which she rarely felt she had the time to ponder. Of course, Victor was foremost in her thoughts. She thought of their closeness and their intimacy, and warmth infused her floating consciousness. Then she thought of her fears—of losing him to death or simply due to falling behind, forgotten as he took on quest after quest where she wouldn’t be strong enough to follow. What did it say about her that she feared the latter more than the former?

Unable to think of a resolution, she let her mind drift to other worries. What about her mother? What about Rellia, the woman who’d adopted her, raised her, and spent so much of her life forging her into an aide and successor? How would Rellia handle it if she left Fanwath to adventure with Victor? Would she break down? Would she grow bitter and distant? Would she and the others they left be overrun and killed by the Ridonne?

In despair at the idea and her lack of solutions, Valla turned her mind to other things, wondering if there couldn’t possibly be something pleasant to think about. Of course, her mind had other plans and began to consider the campaign and question whether her thoughts of leaving with Victor weren’t premature. How closely had Victor come to death already? How nearly had he died against the reavers? What wasn’t he telling her about his clash with Dunstan? Why had it taken him almost a week to climb from the depths to claim the keep?

Flailing, trying to escape the negative, worrisome thoughts, Valla tried to force herself to think of anything else, and, had she been able, she would have sighed with relief when her thoughts settled on Midnight Hope, her sword. What a wonderful weapon! She was sure she was making headway with bringing her to consciousness. She’d begun to feel emotions from the weapon—anger, excitement, hunger. The blade loved to fight and loved to be held by Valla. She would have laughed at that thought; it reminded her of Victor’s troubles with Lifedrinker. If only he knew how she could relate. Her sword was a jealous blade, always eager to be held and disappointed when Valla sheathed her.

I’ve been listening to you, Valla.

The voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. Valla was just grateful for a change in the empty, nothingness. “You have?” Again, she formed the words and spoke as she would at any other time, but she couldn’t feel her mouth, her lungs, or her ears. Did the words take shape?

Yes. You’re a kind and strong woman, and I’m impressed by you.

“Who are you?”

I’m a fragment of your lineage, a tiny bit of your ancestry, a progenitor that has faded to near nothingness in the dilution of your bloodlines.

“The dilution . . .”

Many are the peoples who make up your history, Valla. My time was long and long ago. I faded in your ancestors’ blood even before my people began to die out among the larger population. Still, I was there, near the beginning, an ancient spark that traveled through history to bring you into existence.

“You’re my ancestor? Who are you, though?”

So little of me still exists. Heranya was my name, and I rode the winds around the Tarcris Peaks.

“Tarcris? That was in the old world, on Alurath? I’ve never met someone with that name; is it Ardeni?

Alurath, aye. Ardeni, nay, Valla. I was Ordeni with the Rihven bloodline.

“I had Ordeni ancestors?”

At least one! As you drifted here, I searched your thoughts for my people, but they’re gone, aren’t they?

“They were small in number when the worlds were joined. They were the first to come together to build a new civilization. I wasn’t alive, but it’s taught that the Yovashi, a species from another world, called down pieces of the moon to destroy their city, all but wiping them out.”

As I feared. I saw glimpses of your world, and not a single Ordeni face graced the crowds in your memories. I feel great sorrow, Valla, this fragment of me that lives in you. Will you help to revive the memory of my—our—people? Will you take up the mantle of an entire species and carry it forth into the worlds?

“I . . .” Valla could feel the sadness lacing the words of her ancestor, and she struggled with the impulse to immediately agree. “Will I have your bloodline, too? Can you tell me about it?”

In your memories, I saw many Shadeni and Ardeni but only one Ridonne. Do the Vessi and Ridonne no longer wage war?

“The Vessi are dead. The Ridonne have wiped their bloodline clean from the world. I’ve only seen one Ridonne because they rule from high places and don’t mingle with those they deem lesser.”

What a tragedy! The worst of us lives on, then. No Vessi and no Rihven—a fallen world.

“It’s not that bad . . .”

Forgive me, Valla, daughter. Little of me lives on in you, but it's enough for me to feel—enough for sorrow and rage to war for space in my fragmented heart. You’ve consumed something potent, daughter, something that wants to wake a bloodline. You have more and newer contenders. You could spurn me, and something else will wake in the place of your Rihven heritage, but I beg you to embrace me!

Again, Valla grappled with emotion and the impulse to say yes. Her ancestor hadn’t answered her question, hadn’t told her what a Rihven was. Still, she’d given her a hint—the Ordeni had been the strongest Energy users from Alurath, driven to extinction by the jealousy of the Yovashi, though they’d been few in number before that. Had their Rihven bloodline been the cause? Had they been brought low because of the Ridonne’s obsession with exterminating the Vessi and, apparently, the Rihven? Valla stopped deliberating and answered her progenitor with her heart, “I will embrace the Rihven bloodline.”

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