Rise of the Darkwitch (The Dance of Dark and Light Book 1) Read online

‘It is I who am honoured,’ Bandim said. As he spoke, he stood. Then, sending ripples of shock through the congregation, he bowed to Johrann. ‘My armies march against the bodies, but your actions today will be the final blow against the heathens, and will guarantee victory for our empire.’

  All around her, the followers bowed, like a great unfurling flower. Johrann tried to suppress the smile blooming on her face. The burn of self-justification burst with renewed brightness.

  As the emperor sat, Johrann climbed atop the altar. Pacing on its shimmering surface, she raised her hands.

  ‘My friends,’ she said, ‘the most glorious day has finally arrived. Today, we welcome our beloved goddess Dorai back to us. Today marks the reckoning for the blasphemous followers of Nunako and their Light.’

  The room pulsed with anticipation. Johrann’s words echoed against the walls and in their hearts. She grinned. It was so easy.

  ‘Already, our beloved emperor sends righteous soldiers to cleanse the heathens, so that the vanquishing may begin. Here, today, we will bring our hearts together to strike a blow against those who deny our truth. We will return the glory of Dorai to our world, and annihilate the unbelievers forever!’

  The gathered crowd burst into a frenzy, jumping in elation. Arms and tails swung with fervour, and Johrann pumped her fist aloft, leading the shrieks.

  ‘Get to your feet, friends,’ she called. ‘Lend me your thoughts and your hearts, and we shall bring the Beloved back to our world!’

  Every arm lifted, outstretched claws blooming. Even Bandim rose, raising his hands.

  Johrann’s heart pounded. Sweat poured from her brow. It was time.

  ‘Great Goddess, the true Dorai, Ruler of the Dark,’ she said. ‘I give myself to you, on this day when the moons lie equal and the sun is at its closest, in full view of your children, presenting my body as a sacrifice for your Great Works. I offer myself to you as a conduit, your True Believer, and that you return your beauteous countenance to this world, and finally rid us of the Great Evil, as you have promised!’

  Johrann’s words dissipated, and then there was silence. No one dared to breathe.

  A deep clunk emanated from everywhere and nowhere. Lighted torches were snuffed by a sudden whirlwind of heat. The temple shook, showers of dust raining down. The vaulted roof groaned and howled.

  Then Johrann screamed.

  Knife-sharp pain pierced her skull. Blackness consumed her. She shrieked into the abyss as she rose from her feet, scorching wind twisting like a tornado.

  Blood wept from her eyes and ears, flowing from the corners of her mouth, dripping from her claws. Thousands of voices echoed, drowning out her thoughts until she could feel nothing but the discordance of terror. Johrann gave one final, forceful yelp, and the chamber plunged into impossible darkness.

  Despite it, one figure was clear. Bandim. He stood in the sable night, holding her gaze.

  Johrann knew what she had to do.

  She placed her claws on the emperor’s face. The heat that coursed within her pooled at her fingertips. In that moment, the miracle happened. Something moved from one to the other. The essence, the spirit, the truth of Dorai, flowed through Johrann’s talons and deep into Bandim. He jerked back, body racked with apoplexy, but his face was fused to her claws. His skin sizzled. He screamed.

  ‘Do not fear,’ Johrann whispered. ‘All will be well.’

  She pressed her mouth to his. His eyes snapped open. He returned the fervent embrace.

  And that was it. The deed was done.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Reunited

  Night fell quickly. Emmy pulled her arms inside her scratchy tunic as she sat on the makeshift bench outside the healer’s tent. The sky was black and spotted with twinkling constellations. The Rising Prago, the Twins, the Charging Vaemar... Even the elusive Goddess’s Throne was visible.

  A chill flitted through her and she turned from the stars. It was time to go inside.

  Five days had passed since their arrival at the camp. Most of the very old and those with professions had moved on, this time in carts. I don’t know if I’m lucky or not, Emmy thought. I’m safe here, but for how long?

  Each day, she trained with Rel, though not much was new. Some of her neighbours grew well under her care, but they didn’t thank her for it. Others withered and died. But as each body was removed, another fell into its cooling shadow. More Metakalans, a handful of Belfoni, and many Selamans, their land destroyed and their hearts bereft. The Althemerians took all manner of folk from the seas—acquired from the Masvams, but none free.

  ‘Folk from all places bleed for Althemer,’ Rel had said. ‘The queen doesn’t care. She needs to keep her borders, but why sacrifice your own when you can sacrifice others?’ She laughed, but the sound was hollow. ‘That’s why they call it shipbait. It doesn’t matter who you are or where you are from,’ she added, dipping her head. ‘Althemer is the great equaliser.’

  Shipbait? Emmy thought. Even that isn’t strong enough. We’re slaves.

  Her mind turned to Charo, out somewhere in the camp’s sprawl. Emmy hadn’t seen horn nor tail of her since their separation on the plinth. Every night, Emmy waited in the growing chill, hoping for a glimpse of her friend. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel Charo’s breathing, in and out, in and out.

  Yet she saw nothing.

  With one last sweeping look across the torch-lit camp, Emmy retreated to the tent. She rubbed her arms as warmth licked at her skin. There were no candles inside, but metal braziers provided light and heat.

  Emmy glowered at the chaos of stretchers. The constant movement of the sick, the injured, and the dead, meant that order was impossible. Her fingers twitched, and she beat back the urge to straighten the rows.

  A weak voice called out.

  ‘I can tell you want to tidy.’

  Emmy spun and placed the sound.

  ‘Zecha!’ she cried.

  She rushed through the mess of injured, falling to her knees at her friend’s side.

  ‘You’re awake at last! she breathed, giving him a careful hug.

  Though they were watery and drooping, Zecha’s eyes were finally open. His mouth stretched into a tired smile.

  ‘My, my,’ he said, weak arms returning the embrace, ‘it’s nice to be wanted.’

  Emmy clucked her tongue, her face flushing with delight. She pulled away, but kept one hand on Zecha’s arm.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re awake,’ she said. ‘I was worried you wouldn’t come back to us.’

  Zecha chuckled and peered at his stomach, though the movement pained him.

  ‘Is it bad?’ he asked.

  ‘The Althemerian healer did a good job of cleaning the wound,’ Emmy said. ‘Her stitching, however… Well, it doesn’t hold up to mine.’

  ‘Whose would?’ Zecha asked, chuckling again. ‘Can I see it?’

  Emmy hesitated, but drew back the covers. Zecha, propped on his elbows, stared as she hitched up his shift. He gave a low whistle.

  ‘That will leave a nasty scar,’ he said.

  ‘Just be glad you’ll have many cycles to be irritated by it,’ Emmy said, a gentle chide.

  ‘It doesn’t worry me,’ he replied. ‘I’ll say it’s a war wound when I show it to my younglings.’

  War. At that word, Emmy’s heart sank. She tucked Zecha in, pressing his shoulders so he would lie down. His eyeridges drew together.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  He looked around the tent, as if only realising where he was. His face grew pinched as he saw the unusual symbol on Emmy’s chest. He tried to rise, but Emmy kept him down.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re in an Althemerian camp,’ Emmy said. ‘They were the ones who saved us from the Masvams.’ She snorted at her own words. Saved. Ha.

  ‘Althemerians?’ Zecha asked. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Emmy sighed. She rubbed her hand in circles on Zecha’s flat shoulder, trying to find the righ
t words.

  ‘The Althemerians say we owe them a life-debt,’ she said. ‘It’s a decate of unpaid service, or join their army. If you survive, you’re free. If you die, well… I suppose you don’t need to worry about it.’

  ‘What?’ Zecha asked.

  He shot upward but fell straight back, curling in agony. Emmy hushed him, straightening his legs with firm hands.

  ‘I know,’ Emmy said. ‘Where they send you depends on your skills. The healer who saved you, Rel, heard I was an apothecary, and took me to help with the wounded.’ She huffed. ‘I was lucky she was there, otherwise I’d be off to the front lines.’

  ‘Oh…’ Zecha said. ‘What about Charo?’

  Emmy bit her lip. Zecha tried to rise again.

  ‘Where is she?’ he asked, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice.

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Zecha!’

  The voice struck like a lightning bolt. A green and yellow blur dove towards them.

  It was Charo.

  She enveloped Zecha in a hug, knocking Emmy aside. Zecha yelped, but didn’t let go.

  ‘I thought you were dead!’ Charo said.

  ‘And hello to you too,’ Emmy groused, picking herself from the floor.

  Charo blinked, shook herself, and embraced Emmy in turn.

  ‘Sorry!’ she said. ‘I was just so worried about Zecha.’

  Relief at seeing Charo alive and well pushed any irritation aside. Emmy returned Charo’s squeeze, regarding her with quick eyes. Her friend looked older, somehow, as if she’d grown a cycle’s worth in a few days.

  ‘I’m glad you’re safe,’ Emmy said. ‘Where have you been?’

  Charo sat back, her long tail curled around her legs. She kept one hand on Emmy and settled the other on Zecha.

  ‘I’ve been assigned to combat training,’ she said. ‘We spend a lot of time in the fields, learning how to fight.’ She ducked her head. ‘They say I’m a fast learner.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Zecha replied.

  A shadow fell over the little group. Emmy stood. It was Rel.

  ‘He wakes at last,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘I thought you would prove me a bad healer.’

  ‘Thank you for helping me,’ Zecha said. The skin around his eyes tightened, though he still smiled. ‘I owe you my life. What’s your name?’

  Rel laughed again and shook her head.

  ‘You owe me nothing,’ she said. ‘Just try harder to stay alive. And my name is Rel.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Zecha said again. ‘I’d stand to take your arm, but I don’t think I can.’

  His skin washed out in the dim light of the braziers, waxy with fatigue.

  ‘Of course you can’t,’ Rel said. ‘You need to rest’

  As she knelt to examine his wound, his eyes fell closed. Emmy took Charo’s elbow and led her outside.

  ‘How are you, really?’ she asked.

  Charo scooped a handful of water from the large barrel and nodded.

  ‘Well enough,’ she said after she splashed her face. ‘There’s enough food and, like I said, I seem to learn fast.’

  ‘Well, don’t learn too fast,’ Emmy said, ‘or you might find yourself in the real fighting sooner rather than later.’

  Charo nodded and rubbed her arms against the chill of the night. For a moment, she looked young again. She’s only fourteen, Emmy thought. She’s too young for all this.

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ Charo said. ‘I can’t believe I was freed from one set of bonds, only to be delivered into another. But it isn’t as bad as it was with my last mistress.’

  Emmy nodded in concurrence.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it could be,’ she said. ‘There’s food, and shelter, and I suppose it’s not forever. Who knows? If you’re that good, you could earn your freedom sooner than me.’

  ‘I’d come back for you,’ Charo said. ‘I’d come back to free you—and Zecha. We’re friends. In fact, you’re the closest thing to family I’ve ever had.’

  Emmy tried to smile. She stared at her reflection in the still pool of the water barrel. The three moons loomed large and white, finally parted. The Lunar Awakening had come and gone, and no wishes had been granted. It brought only nightmares.

  She flicked a claw at the surface, sending ripples through the moons, and looked to Charo. Family, Emmy thought. I have no family but Charo and Zecha either. An image of Krodge flashed across her mind.

  Finished her off, I did.

  The words brought a surge of urgency to her chest. She looked up and locked eyes with Charo. The sudden need to speak was too great.

  ‘You know, I’m glad Krodge is dead,’ she said, half-confessing. She tilted her chin up, as if to defy judgement. She forced her claws into fists. ‘Krodge was terrible and cruel and deserved to die. I’m glad she’s dead. And Bose too.’

  Slowly, Charo nodded.

  ‘I don’t think you need to mourn the deaths of those who don’t deserve it,’ she said, turning to stare at the stars. ‘If I found out my old owner was dead, I wouldn’t shed any tears over her. I’d kick her ashes to the wind if I had the chance.’

  She leaned against the barrel and sighed. Emmy kicked at the ground with one second-hand boot and tucked her thumbs into her belt. She took in the image of her friend, decked in her blue uniform. Charo was a far cry from the starved and stabbed waif on Emmy’s doorstep. Her fronds were growing fast, reddish-brown, thick and shimmering.

  Emmy grunted.

  ‘In some ways, I feel I should mourn Krodge,’ she said. ‘Even though she was dreadful to me, she still took me in when she could have drowned me in a bucket, or dashed my head on the back step.’

  Charo clicked her tongue.

  ‘It makes no sense,’ she said. ‘Why would Krodge keep you, but treat you so badly?’

  Instead of answering, Emmy stared at the moons. Nunako’s three faces. She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘She could have ignored me, but she didn’t. Yet, she didn’t love me. And now I’ll never know her reasons.’

  Charo stepped forward and placed a hand on Emmy’s shoulder.

  ‘She doesn’t deserve more of your concern,’ she said.

  It was true, of course. But, Emmy thought as she laid her claws on Charo’s, it wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

  Finished her off, I did.

  For Emmy, it would never be finished.

  Never.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Nightmares

  He tugged the hem of the bed shirt over his head and smoothed out its creases. For a moment, Mantos of House Tiboli stood in the middle of the strange chamber, listening to unfamiliar sounds. Far-off bells tolled in high towers. Ethereal chanting rose from the temple of Ethay and Apago, just like it had every other day for near a month. He clenched his fists, the skin tightening, growing pale.

  Mantos Tiboli had returned from the dead.

  The last thing he remembered was standing in his mourning whites on the grand balcony, listening to the sound of anguished cries from below.

  ‘The Emperor is dead!’

  Candles blossomed in the courtyard. Long tendrils of light spilled out, winding around the city he called home. Then there was nothing.

  Now? Mantos wore a stranger’s clothes, stood in an unknown chamber, and didn’t know if he was alive or dead or somewhere in-between.

  For some time, Mantos remained on the woven carpet, waiting. For what? He flexed his claws, rolled his shoulders, swept his tail back and forth. He felt the roughness of the weave beneath his feet and the coolness of the linen on his chest. He felt the breeze wafting in from the open window, bringing with it otherworldly chanting.

  He had returned from the dead.

  I wish I could remember something… he thought, drumming his toes on the ground. Every sensation was strange, as if he’d been encased in ice for a thousand cycles. The world felt off—a perception beyond being in a new place, wearing clothes that were not his own.
/>   He was in Althemer. Fonbir was here.

  Stranger still, his mother was there.

  The moment he met her eyes, Mantos’s heart had stopped. For his whole life, Phen had been enclosed in a tower. He’d never seen her eyes co clear, her face so full of life—and terror. She was alive and well, talking to him. Touching him. Crying over him. Mantos shuddered. Nothing made sense.

  So far, he hadn’t been allowed to venture from his chamber. Phen and Fonbir were his only visitors. Even the servants were denied entry.

  ‘Queen’s orders,’ the surly guards had said.

  The only stranger to grace his presence was the healer of strange colours. Bomsoi, they called her. The magician. The life-giver. Regardless, Mantos paid her little heed.

  His waking moments were filled with contemplation. His nights were poisoned, filled with strange figures and faces—and white hot agony.

  When he dreamed, his body was torn in two. Fissures opened, pulling and stretching skin and muscle and bone until he was ripped in two. Nothing stopped it. The torture came night after night.

  A reluctant weariness overcoming him, Mantos forced his body back to the bed’s soft embrace. He tucked an arm under his pillow and lay on his side, curling his tail between his legs. He breathed slowly, willing his mind to grant him a semblance of peace. He tried to think of anything but the terrible splitting, the tearing in two, the invasion of his body by something…

  Then he was watching himself from afar. Tiny, isolated, adrift on a sea of loneliness. Clanking surrounded him, unseen chains bound him, all undercut by a whine that rang in his chest. Then the figure spoke, and he knew it was not himself.

  ‘Mantos! Mantos!’ The figure turned in circles, calling out, whirling into nothingness. ‘Mantos!’

  No matter how he tried, he couldn’t move forward. His arms and legs were lead as he struggled and flailed.

  There was no warning for what happened next.

  A howl erupted from his throat as Mantos split from head to tail. It was like a hot knife slipped through him. All he knew was pain. Reality swirled as he screamed, desperately trying to put his body back together. The figure that was not himself shuddered towards him. This time, it wasn’t crying out. It was grinning.