Chapter Four
When time was new and the world barely formed, the Sheltered Lands cried out for a protector. So the Dragon appeared from the flames, and the Siren rose from the depths of the seas. A handful of others followed, gods who could hear the whispers of the world itself.
They were the Dreamers, and where they walked, the world thrived.
When they Dreamt, the world changed.
Then they fought, and the world broke. And, in darkness and fear, our nightmares formed the Endless Void.
The War of the Gods
Author unknown
Some of Einar’s earliest memories were of being a boy without a homeland.
The island of his birth, where his parents had ruled, had fallen beneath the sword of the Empire in his first week of life.
If the Emperor had realized the crown-prince still lived to undermine him, he would have spared no effort in eliminating the threat.
That made settlement in any of the kingdoms which made up the Empire impossible, even if they’d wanted to—which they had not.
There were distant lands in their world that most had never heard of. Several of Einar’s crew hailed from those mysterious places—islands to the south that never saw winter, and a continent so far to the east that it took a full moon to sail the Sunrise Sea to its shores.
Einar had never known why Petya decided to settle in the Sheltered Lands instead, but he had his suspicions.
That it was the closest safe harbor to the island that still held her heart had likely factored into the decision—straying too far from the shores of Rahvekya might have shattered her already bruised soul.
But Einar had always assumed the true reason was much simpler: the Sheltered Lands were ruled over by gods who were the Emperor’s sworn enemies.
The High Court of Dreamers. Seven of the most powerful people—not including Sachielle and Zanya—to walk their world.
They had lived for so long that Einar’s two thousand years and more seemed youthful.
Their whims and moods could rattle the earth or stir the wind.
Fire and water danced to please them, and the creatures of the woods and wilds spoke to them—and listened to them.
They were terrifying and glorious, and the Emperor—the Betrayer, as they called him—loathed each and every one of them both deeply and personally.
Aleksi was one of them. The least outwardly intimidating, perhaps, which was one reason he had been dispatched to form an alliance with Gwynira, as few suspected treachery and violence from the god of something as gentle as love itself.
But the High Court were his oldest friends, fearsome not just in their power, but in their unrelenting protectiveness.
Apparently, they had found Aleksi’s assurances that he was unharmed by his ordeal insufficient, and had arrived to find out for themselves—and possibly wreak vengeance upon Gwynira’s court if they were not satisfied with what they discovered.
Gwynira must have understood that, but she was too experienced at hiding her true thoughts to show it.
While her court whispered and fluttered, she sat straight and unmoving on her throne, her face fixed perhaps a little too firmly in an expression of casual disinterest. Her too-tight grip on the arms of her throne was the only thing that betrayed her fear, but Arktikos responded to it by subtly shifting until he was in a position to lunge in front of her if necessary.
A courageous but foolish move—if the High Court decided they wanted to destroy this court, not a single stone would be left standing atop another by midday.
Gwynira understood that, as well. But she still lifted one hand in a gracious gesture. “Please present our guests to the court.”
The candles were still dancing wildly, so Einar wasn’t surprised when the herald’s voice boomed out again in the first introduction.
“Returning to the court, we welcome the Dragon, Lord of Earth and Fire, Protector of the Sheltered Lands, with his consorts, the Princess Sachielle, Guardian of Dreams, and the Lady Zanya, Mistress of Shadows.”
Sachi appeared in the doorway, the usually subtle glow around her like a violent storm.
From the way the court was staring at her, Einar wondered if even the mortals could see that brilliant rainbow, like the Dream itself swirled around her in colors not yet invented.
Instead of her usual simple gown or traveling leathers, she wore pearlescent white dragonscale armor.
Crystals embedded in the breastplate caught the light as she moved, throwing even more sparks of color.
The first time Einar had met her, she’d been a simple mortal princess fading under the weight of a curse meant to sever her from the Dream.
A vile threat by a vile man who had turned out to be an agent of the Emperor, sent to soften the Sheltered Lands for an easy conquest from within.
That plan had backfired on the Emperor in the end, for in endangering Sachi’s life, Sorin had woken her true nature.
Not a simple mortal at all, but the manifestation of the Everlasting Dream itself.
Though she had walked the earth for fewer than thirty years, her essence was ancient.
She was a force beyond even the High Court, and her power eclipsed any Einar had ever known.
As she strode into the Great Hall, that power seethed around her with an aggression Einar had never seen before.
She was flanked by Ash and Zanya, and their aggression was no surprise.
For most of Einar’s life, Ash had been the most powerful creature to walk their world—and not simply because he could turn into a dragon and raze entire armies in heartbeats.
The very earth shook where he walked, and fire answered his call.
On any other man, his old-fashioned armor with its burnished gold studding would have seemed a laughable affectation. It didn’t even cover most of his body, with the strips of his leather skirt barely brushing his knees and the chest plate leaving his strong arms fully bare.
No one in the abruptly silent hall seemed likely to laugh, however. Maybe it was the way his eyes danced in the color of fire, or the candle flames shuddered as he passed while the marble floors trembled in excitement with his every step.
Or maybe it was Zanya, prowling on Sachi’s other side with shadows licking around her body.
Her armor was the opposite of Sachi’s, made of ebony and obsidian, and she wore it with the confidence of a born warrior.
The Kraken stirred inside Einar, his skin itching with the need to slide into a stronger form as she passed him.
Not that it would help—the blades she wore trapped and hoarded light.
Void-steel, one of the only things that could hurt a god.
Wounds taken from Void-steel healed slowly and poorly—if they healed at all.
And that wasn’t even the most terrifying thing about her. The Emperor’s reckless plan hadn’t awoken only Sachi. Zanya had found her own power as Sachi’s equal and opposite—the Endless Void born into not-so-mortal flesh.
The Dream and the Void. Creation and Destruction, opposites that always walked hand in hand, manifested into the forms of two young women because the threat Sorin and his Empire had presented had been so vast, only the primordial forces that ruled their very world had a chance of stopping him.
Einar feared few things, but he held a deep and respectful wariness of Zanya, and found no shame in acknowledging it. Only a fool would tangle willingly with the literal power of destruction.
The tense silence was broken by the herald’s somewhat shaky voice. “Presenting the Siren, Mother to the Wind and Waves, Queen of the Deep.”
Shocked gasps and whispers raced through the crowd as Dianthe stepped through the doors.
In spite of the fact that he had already tasted her presence on the wind, Einar nearly joined them in gaping.
He had served the Siren for centuries, obediently appearing at her main seat at Seahold for important feast days and celebrations .
. . and he had never seen her dressed like this.
Wide blue skirts flowed around her with every step, giving the impossible illusion of moving like water.
A split in the front revealed tight pants glistening with iridescent scales like a deep-water creature and knee-high armored boots.
Her tightly fitted bodice was studded in hundreds of iridescent seashells interspersed with embroidery.
Glittering beads formed a cresting wave over her shoulders, flowing into a wide collar that framed her face and brushed the waves of dark curly hair piled atop her head, hair dotted with crystals like the stars reflecting on the dark of the ocean at night.
Her power flared in her eyes as she paused next to him, their wild blue depths as dangerous as he’d ever seen.
It was instinct and long habit to bend his knee to her, eliciting even more murmurs from the crowd around him.
At his side, Klement muttered, “Fascinating,” as if planning a new chapter in his book.
Dianthe smiled at Einar and continued on.
The staff thumped again, and Einar straightened, his head whipping toward the door.
The four who had already arrived were an almost terrifying show of force, especially with Aleksi already in attendance.
But the herald drew in another breath and proclaimed, “Presenting the Phoenix, Keeper of the Sacred Flame, Ruler of Rebirth and Renewal.”
Those nearest the entrance drew back in a frightened wave as Nyx entered.
Not because of the elaborateness of their costume—if anything, Nyx’s simple trousers and wide-sleeved shirt cinched with an embroidered vest were modest compared to those who had preceded them.
But they walked surrounded by flames—not the orange and gold of the Dragon, but the Phoenix’s eerie silver and blue flames that burned with a different kind of ferocity.