37 Who Will Vouch?
Syvr named the destination.
Antal visualized the spot, then set off with a teleport, Fionamara’s hand warm and borderline aggressive in his.
Impatient creature. Though he didn’t fault her frustration.
He’d felt the same when he’d had to leave her behind, had berated himself for not thinking of this plan sooner, ever since Syvr had slipped him that note.
We’ll give Fi her bands. Meet at my home after the ceremony. Don’t let Avroz know.
Antal would hear about this later. He suppressed that familiar squirm in his stomach, the thought of Avroz’s scowl, the inevitable lecture on shirking responsibility. Let him scowl. Antal had played his part today. He deserved a little rebellion.
They emerged in a valley. Low grasses brushed their heels, interspersed with periwinkle flowers. Potholes broke the hillocky terrain, none more than an arm span across, filled with deep, clear water and darting fishes. A cliff stood ahead, soft purple in the twilight.
Of course Syvr would bring them here. Every daeyari knew this place.
“Is that…?” Fionamara tipped her head back.
A statue had been carved into the stone, tall as the cliff, gazing out upon the meadows.
The daeyari’s robes draped in countless layers, the swirling folds collecting shadows.
His face was hard, angular. His antlers curved to ten sharp points, the most a daeyari ever attained. He held one hand extended, beckoning.
“Veshri,” Antal confirmed. “This is said to be the first place he returned to the Twilit Plane, after weaving his immortal body.”
“Each new Sunsplitter must be witnessed by an old one,” Syvr said. “Veshri ought to count, right? Are you ready to have your bands, human?”
“My bands?” Fionamara said.
Antal devoured the spark in her eyes, the way her fingers tightened against his.
Subtler, her attention lingered on the statue of Veshri. Supposedly, they’d met once. Fionamara, lost in the Void, had recounted meeting an old daeyari with carnelian eyes, who’d taught her to Voidwalk back to the Plane. The stranger’s identity had always been conjecture.
Now, Fionamara looked upon the carved face of the first immortal, a frown tugging her mouth—recognition in her eyes. A chill raked Antal’s spine. Millenia-old daeyari embarked on their Pilgrimage for the slim chance of meeting Veshri, yet this mystifying human had found him on accident.
Antal said nothing to the others. Not his secret to tell.
Ixli joined them at a delay, clutching a metal box, much smaller than an aedari head. Fionamara squinted at the mystery. Then they walked together, soft grass folding beneath their feet, until they reached a stone platform at the base of the statue.
Daeyari had no gods to pray to. Even Veshri wasn’t divine, simply vaster in knowledge than his younger brethren.
His statues stood across the daeyari-controlled territories, a spot for visitors to meditate on their place in the Shattered Planes.
Others paid homage before their Pilgrimage.
This shrine, though notable, was still remote. They shouldn’t be bothered here.
The group sat, Fionamara at their middle, three daeyari encircling her.
Syvr tossed a small vial. Antal caught it, golden aedari blood glowing through the glass.
“How’d you get that out from under Avroz’s nose?” Ixli said, equally horrified and impressed. “He’ll be a terror when he finds it missing.”
“Ixli. Darling.” Syvr spread their arms. “This is exactly the skill set Avroz employs me for. He can’t get angry at me for practicing.”
“This is all very kind of you,” Fionamara observed. “Heartwarming, really. But I feel compelled to point out one tiny, critical detail that seems to have escaped the consideration of this subterfuge.” She pointed to her head. “I don’t have antlers.”
Syvr huffed a laugh. “Antal, always choosing the clever ones.”
Ixli swatted them with her tail.
“No antlers,” Antal agreed. “But…”
He lifted her wrist. Fionamara complied, inquisitive as he rolled back her sleeve to reveal the floral tattoos blooming up her arm.
“Just a different type of ink,” Antal said. “We can choose a spot that suits you. It’s the mark that counts, not the antlers.”
Plenty of daeyari would argue that point. Most weren’t Sunsplitters.
“Not the arm,” Ixli said. “Not as visible as an antler.”
“Where, then?” Antal asked.
Fionamara sat still, an imperious tilt to her chin as three daeyari inspected her face.
“Plenty of room on her cheek,” Syvr proposed.
“Inelegant.” Ixli tapped above her own brow. “The temple?”
Fionamara hummed. “No. How about…” She combed both hands through her hair, pulling it back to reveal her ears.
Not as visible as antlers, but close to it. She’d wear the marks well.
Syvr and Ixli looked to Antal. He sat back on his heels. Leveled his voice.
“The daeyari were gifted immortal life by Veshri…”
Antal repeated Qirza’s speech, the story of how daeyari and aedari had met. Had clashed.
“Each hand in the fight is to be recognized,” he said. “Who vouches for this warrior?”
Ixli spoke. “I stand witness for this… warrior.” She chose her word carefully. Not daeyari. Not human. More important than either. “I affirm, the aedari died by her hands.”
Syvr sprawled back on their elbows. “And you call a venerated Sunsplitter to bear witness?” They looked up to the statue of Veshri. “Well, he can’t not vouch for you.”
Maybe Veshri had vouched for her, longer ago than Syvr realized.
Antal opened the vial of aedari blood. Once he’d dipped his claw into the viscous liquid, he hesitated. Carving antlers differed from carving skin.
Fionamara sat on her knees. Fists clutched against her thighs.
“Do it,” she said.
As she commanded.
He cupped her jaw, angling her head. The gold had to be seared in place—in this case, not engraving an antler, but rather, a burn that would leave a gold-fused scar. Heat sizzled down Antal’s finger as he Shaped a current. He touched hot energy to her ear.
Fionamara’s flinch was agony, her teeth gritted. But she didn’t cry out.
Syvr watched, tail swaying. “Does it—”
“Yes, it fucking hurts, Syvr,” she hissed. “Thank you for asking.”
“Then talk to me,” they said. “Tell me how you met Antal.”
Fionamara barked a laugh. “I blew up his capitol building.”
“I thought you claimed no responsibility,” Antal growled, focused on his work.
“Semantics, daeyari.”
What followed was a not particularly flattering account of their first meeting in Thomaskweld. Fionamara’s visit to Antal’s shrine. Their plotting. Their alliance with Nyskya. Their victory over Verne. He let her speak with only minor commentary. It seemed to take her mind off the pain.
As she talked, Antal seared a golden ring onto both ears, starting at the inner shell, curving around the outside. Thick, clean lines, enough to draw attention.
When he finished, Fionamara touched the work with gentle fingers. Her skin turned angry red around the marks, her eyes shimmering, but she came away grinning.
“How does it look?”
Antal swept his gaze over her ears. Her face. Her uncompromising grin. “Stunning.”
Ixli shifted onto her knees. Always odd to see her flustered, that anxious tail flick. She offered her box to Fionamara.
“A gift. For a fellow warrior. It was an honor to fight with you, and I…” Ixli’s brow creased fiercer. “I’m sorry I judged you poorly when we met.”
Fionamara accepted the box with slow hands, a reverent nod. As if her eyes weren’t gleaming like a magpie underneath. She popped open the lid and—
Oh. No.
That particularly dreadful smirk never meant good things for Antal.
“Ixli, how did you know?” Fionamara dug her fingers into the box, returning with… claws. One of Ixli’s sets of reinforced metal tips. The weapons glinted on her human fingers, wickedly sharp, though not half as much as her grin.
Antal vacillated between terror, and the desire to kiss every finger on her hand. In other words, the usual extremes.
Syvr leaned close to whisper, “Bet you’ll enjoy those, too.”
Antal tossed the empty vial at their head.
“They’re daeyari made,” Ixli said. “They may need adjustments to fit properly, but I’ve no doubt, you’ll wear them well.”
Fionamara tilted her hand forward and back, admiring the gift. The glisten in her eyes grew brighter. Of course, a weapon was what made her emotional.
“They’re gorgeous, Ixli. Thank you.” Softer, “All three of you. Thank you. I know I’m no daeyari, but… let me finish, Syvr!”
Syvr clamped their mouth shut. A dramatic hand gesture beckoned her to continue.
Fionamara slipped the metal claws back into the box. “I’m sorry I misjudged you, too.” She looked to Ixli, to Syvr, even a glance to Antal. “I know I’m different from you, but you’ve helped me feel like I belong here.”
Antal was relieved to hear it. He hated that she had to say it at all.
She should never have had to accompany him home disguised as an Arbiter rather than a partner. She should never have had to prove her worth by fighting an aedari. She should have sat beside them to receive her bands.
“It’s bullshit,” Antal said. “Only those of ‘immortal, Void-woven flesh’ are permitted entry to the Daey Celva? Avroz made me read that charter a thousand times. The detail’s a relic.
Left over from the fissure, the council separating itself from the governance of the remaining mortal daeyari, a race that doesn’t even exist anymore. Yet that’s still the standard?”
“Perhaps you’ll change it,” Ixli said. “Once you’re appointed to the Daey Celva.”
He could.
He would. That spark of possibility, growing bolder—not just Antal, but Syvr and Ixli, their scheming on the rooftops of Thomaskweld, a plan for an alliance of neighboring territories.
Fionamara, eyes locked with his in indomitable anticipation, a wordless promise that she’d fight tooth and claw for everything they set out to build.
“Perhaps all of us, together, could manage some change,” Antal said. “More than just protecting Thomaskweld. There are hundreds of daeyari territories. The humans who live in them deserve to do more than spectate the Daey Celva. They should have a voice on it.”
Fionamara whistled. “Look at you, Antlers. Ready to make some old daeyari angry?”
He ignored Ixli’s snicker at the nickname. “It will be a daunting task. Edicts to rewrite, entire systems to dismantle. But we have to start… What’s wrong, Syvr?” Antal slumped, interpreting Syvr’s tight tail flicks as disapproval.
Until he noticed how alert they sat. Their attention, not on the conversation—a low growl as they stared upward… at another daeyari, perched high atop the statue of Veshri, silhouetted in twilight. Watching.
Antal’s core went Void cold—the mere audacity of speaking a dream out loud, enough to summon his father to crush it again.
And with startling swiftness. Avroz shouldn’t have noticed their absence so soon.
He shouldn’t have found them here. Antal should have been able to covet one single evening free from his father’s claws.
But that was never how this worked. He shrank like a guilty child, rendered miniscule beneath that towering gaze, never able to run far enough.
Except… the daeyari’s eyes were too light a red. The antlers curved too high.
Not Avroz.
The figure slipped sideways like a wisp of shadow, vanishing.
Ixli was first on her feet, Antal close behind. This was a public shrine. Any daeyari could visit, but etiquette demanded one predator didn’t sneak up on another unannounced, not if intentions were peaceful.
“Daeyari!” Ixli called out, still armor-clad. “Show yourself. This is a hallowed place.”
Silence hung upon the old stones, drifted in whispering grass fronds.
Then, a hushed laugh, scarcely louder than the breeze.
“Is it?”
The daeyari stepped out from the shadows at the base of the statue. The interloper approached on unhurried strides. Antal raised his hackles. A swift threat assessment—four against one. Easy odds, even facing unfamiliar teeth.
But then, Antal watched Ixli’s ferocity snuff out. Replaced by shock.
He watched stunned silence settle over Syvr.
His claws fell lax, eyes widening on Void-black robes that seemed to wisp at the edges. Ten-pointed antlers heavy with carvings. A scent like the deepest chill of the Void, skin the cool gray of late dusk, every ridge of his face time-hollowed.
Antal would have recognized him, even without the statue overhead.
Any daeyari would have.
Time seemed to still as the immortal paused before them. Grass-sweet wind brushed the platform, tussling the plait between his antlers. His eyes were carnelian. Old. Antal had seen old eyes before, but these were ancient. He’d heard every story. Every hushed and hallowed myth.
But never in Antal’s immortal life had he envisioned standing before Veshri himself.
Ixli moved first, a claw touched to her highest antler tip, head bowed. The only thing to do. Antal followed, then Syvr, paying reverence to the creator of their kind, his mere presence the honor of a lifetime.
“Fi,” Ixli hissed.
Before the first immortal, three daeyari bowed their heads—while one human stood up straight. It was she who drew Veshri’s slitted gaze. She who made his head take on a slow tilt.
Fionamara raised a hand… and waved.
“Hello,” she said. “Again?”