Loss Revival

His star flickered from a brilliant bright blue to the dull white of those surrounding it. One of the gods had died. 

* * * * *

The god, Arvo, looked to the sky above the hedge maze, and then to Kiamo with a grim expression. Half a scowl marked his face. 

Kiamo straightened herself to face his gaze. Despite her position and a painstaking plan drawn to fruition, she still felt nearly powerless in front of him. She resisted the urge to feel her cloak and check if it was still there.

“I’ve never met a mortal, Anyone, with so much gall.” His voice was cold, like a freshwater spring that had nearly frozen over. The jarring contrast almost made Kiamo flinch. “There’s nowhere to hide. As soon as your fragile wall fades, you’re done.”

Kiamo couldn’t see the barrier surrounding the courtyard, but she knew it was there. For a mage, the sheer volume of power would spell eternal imprisonment, Against a god however it would survive mere minutes. Kiamo only needed a moment.

“I tried to negotiate,” Kiamo said to herself.

Arvo chuckled bitterly, “Negotiate? You declare a private war against my descendants and call it negotiation?”

“What else would you have me do?”

“You could have prayed.”

“I did. I begged Frior, and Vorin, and Dane, and each god thereafter.” emotion threatened Kiamo’s voice, but she held it steady.

“Then why didn’t you give it up? Why didn't you just move on?”

Kiamo wasn’t sure how to respond. Hindsight considered, she should have given up. The ordeal had taken a year of her life, many sleepless nights, and countless resources. She dearly wanted it in the beginning, but the desire had dulled over time. Maybe she was too stubborn to take the loss, or perhaps the hole in her heart had been filled by her personal war. It didn’t matter now.

“People die every day.” Arvo continued “You get all the time you’re destined for, and then you die. It’s part of the deal.”

“Our lives are bound by destiny?”

“Yes, they are.”

“And the gods?”

“We’re different.”

“And Mavin?”

Arvo glared at Kiamo, squinting. “Is that supposed to be a threat?” He took half a step back, apparently wary. 

“Would you help me if it were?”

“I would smite you.”

“What a shame.”

Kiamo grabbed the item from her cloak. A thin, rusted dagger. It was an entirely unremarkable piece beyond two very unusual characteristics. It had no weight, and it had once been used to kill a god.

“Where did you get that?” Arvo whispered.

Kiamo thought she could hear genuine fear in his voice.

“That should have been destroyed,” he muttered.

Kiamo took a step forward.

“Hold on.”

Another step

“You wouldn’t”

Kiamo Stabbed the god in the chest. The weightless dagger plunged inward, and the god that couldn’t bleed shed blood. A heavy stream of glowing blue seeped from his chest, and he fell to his knees. It didn’t take him long to die.

* * * * *

His legs were sore, and his back throbbed with a persistent dull pain. He’d been caught in a rough and tumble fashion, and the thin straw mat of the prison cell seemed to make it all the worse. He could hardly expect a feather bed, but he still wished for it.

His condition had grown especially troublesome just recently. The muscles in his legs were being cranked with tension, and any sudden movement made him feel as though his insides were grinding gravel.

Eran tried to work heedless of his encompassing stiffness. The cell was unlike any he’d seen before, and he’d seen many. The cracks in the bricks were filled, the rust-free bars were as thick as his forearm, and the window on his wall was barely larger than a handspan. There was nothing to exploit.

If his comrades had put as much attention into the plan as the architect of this prison, Eran would be off scot-free. He cursed the blockhead bandit leader under his breath. 

He worked deftly with his last set of lockpicks. Luckily, he’d been able to keep them hidden for the low price of his dignity. 

The lock was the only thing Eran could work with. It was a test of his skill, against whatever goblin had designed the unusual thing. The dungeon was dark, but the moonlight gave him just enough illumination to work. This was his fourth crack at it, but his first time making tangible progress.

The guards had left at the usual time, about a quarter-hour ago, but their replacements had never come. He’d been able to familiarize himself with the strange lock on the changes between shifts, but they always came back too soon for his liking. 

Whatever error had happened to the rotation, gave him the perfect opportunity. He could feel himself getting closer until he was confident he'd cracked it. One more twist.

“You work quickly.” The feminine voice was cold and deliberate. It startled Eran so much he nearly jumped and snapped his picks. It wasn’t the voice of another prisoner, - The last of them had been taken last night - and it came from the dungeon stairway. 

Eran cursed himself. He’d been listening for the voices of chatting guards. They always came down with a lantern, so Eran could see the light from the stairway in his periphery. She’d come down without so much as a mutter, and under the shroud of darkness. How long had she been there? How much had she seen?

“What now then?” he asked.

“Is the lock giving you trouble.”

“It’s quite unbreakable” Eran lied.

The lock was basically open already. Just one more tug and he could swing the door. The trouble came with the strange woman. Is she a guard? Is she a mage? Is she alone?

She answered some of his questions as she came into view. She wore a padded green uniform, like those of the guards, but with some subtle differences. He wasn’t a particularly large man, but he still stood half a head taller than her. He figured so long as she wasn’t a mage, he had a fair chance to overpower her. 

“That’s good to know.” She said.

“You wanted to know if I could break it?”

“It’s the best way I’ve surmised of testing out security. Hardened criminals against the boxes we put them in.”

“Your lock’s just fine. What now?”

“Typically, the guards would return, and we’d put your escape attempt as a footnote in the trial.”

“Typically?”

“I have something for you.”

The short woman pulled a parchment from her satchel. It reflected the moonlight with a shimmer. Eran squinted. It was made of gold and scrawled across with a cracked, deep red ink. 

“Do you know what this is?”

Eran had never seen anything like it before, but he’d heard stories. “A blood contract?”

“That’s right. I have a proposition.”

He stared at the woman, a little bit in disbelief. “Even I know that’s forbidden magic.”

“And?”

“Hasn’t your king. . . Forbidden it?”

“That’s right.” The woman said as she extended the blood-written contract.

Erin took a step back.

“You really think I’d be mad enough to sign it?”

“You don't have a choice.” The woman said it with such certainty it sent a chill down his spine.

“What do you mean?”

“I suggest you read it.”

Eran took the contract and read it. With it in his hands, he could tell it really was gold. If the stories were true, then it meant the cracked writing was a dead man’s blood. She killed someone to make this. . .

The woman stood motionless and watched him. Her gaze was harsh and unwavering. He felt like a mouse being circled by a hawk.

He skimmed the blood contract.

“This is insane. You want me to break into the deepest vaults of the Stronghold, of the Holy City to steal what? A . . . a rusty . . .” 

Eran stared at the woman in shock.

The dagger was famous. Everyone knew at least whisperings of the story. A nation that killed their own god, and bathed the world in blood to do it. The weapon was the product of decades of bloodshed.

“By the gods. . . . This is blasphemy!”

“I took you for a thief, not a saint.”

“You’re mad!”

Eran moved to pressure the lockpicks and open the cell, but he found them missing. The woman had them.

“How- When did yo-”

The woman sighed. “I take it you cracked the lock?”

“. . .”

“It seems I chose the right person. What are your thoughts on the contract?”

“It’s sacrilege and suicide. I’d rather work the mines.”

“You’re not finished reading, are you?”

“What?”

“It seems you’re still under the impression that you have a choice.”

“What do you mean?”

Eran quickly scanned the rest of the contract. Until he came to the end.

Upon completion of the mission, the beneficiary must provide a sum of ten years' wages, and clear both the signer and all presently living accomplices of all charges. Upon signing the contract, the beneficiary will provide the antidote. 

“Presently living accomplices?” Eran asked.

“Markus and June. The other two are dead.”

Eran looked at the last line again. 

“Antidote? An antidote to what?”

“You’ve no doubt heard of it in your circles. Elder’s root.”

“You’re going to poison me!?”

“I already have. Surely you’re feeling the effects by now?”

Eran paled “how long?”

“How long have you been poisoned for? Or how long until your precious fingers become as brittle as charcoal? Your life was mine this morning Eran. If you want it back, sign the bloody contract.”

“I Haven’t stood trial.”

“And you won't.”

“What you’re asking is impossible.”

“Not from my perspective.”

Eran stared at the woman, and she stared back at him. 

* * * * *

Kiamo scrubbed the blood from her hands and counted her losses. The sacrifice had been a murderer, easy enough to come by. Both the catalyst and the mage however were a different story. The violet crystal had been especially costly, and despite using the poor woman as such, there truly was no such thing as a disposable mage.

Kiamo examined a fragment of the shattered crystal before tossing it. The once vibrant glow had dissipated, leaving it entirely useless. The mage wasn’t in much better shape. She was shriveled up like a dead cat. The ritual had taken most of her blood and left her in a catatonic state. Kiamo wondered how long it would take to make her usable again. 

Losses aside, the procedure proceeded largely within expectation. A billowing geyser of maroon smoke had erupted from the seemingly unremarkable landscape. Kiamo watched the wispy pillar slowly condense until it formed a silhouette.

“Who pulls me to the mortal plane? What do you desire above all else?” The silhouette whispered.

The question, evidently addressed to the mage, brushed past Kiamo like a gust of wind. The poor girl didn’t respond, lying with her face in the grass and heedless of the overwhelming power before her. 

Kiamo stepped in front of the vegetable and addressed the silhouette. “Mara I presume? You are here to speak with me.”

The smoke recentered on Kiamo, and the aspects of the silhouette became more solid. A face appeared, followed shortly after by the torso and rest of the body. Fully condensed, Mara was a maroon woman a head taller than Kiamo. She wore loose-fitting mage robes, and a hood draped in jewels. 

She looked down at Kiamo, and then to the sky above her head.

“You are powerless, and yet you seek to invoke my name?”

“There’s something that I need from you”

“. . . Perhaps you seek to draw a pillar of your own?”

The question almost caught Kiamo off guard. A pillar, The ability to harness the world's magic. A birthright she was born without. She suspected the feat might be possible, but her delicate plan and the nature of the ritual constrained her ability to ask for more than the necessities. Kiamo cursed Giyus and his secrets. If Only I’d learned of this years ago. 

“I wish to bring someone back from the dead.”

Mara almost seemed to chuckle. “What you seek is impossible for me.”

“For you. But it can be done?”

“Pulling a soul from the void is a feat only the gods can perform.”

“The Void, you’re referring to the afterlife?”

“After-Life Is hardly an accurate description. It’s not as picturesque as you mortals imagine it. No glory halls, and no pearly gates. It’s a vast and desolate sea with very few islands.”

The statement bore a sizable hole in Kiamo’s image of heaven, and the moment this whole ordeal ended, she had no doubt the existential crisis would strike without mercy. Now though, she focused her attention on the matter at hand.

“You said only the gods can do it. They’ve already rejected me.”

“It’s not surprising.”

“How do I convince them?”

“You don’t. Devote your entire life, and the lives of your followers, and a god might consider your request.”

“There must be another way.”

“Those who beg do not have the privilege of choice.”

Kiamo grit her teeth.

“Could I not negotiate?”

“What do you have to give? You would be as an ant, asking a man to wade into a tar pit and retrieve a sewing pin hidden somewhere beneath the surface. If pity is all you have to bargain, it is not nearly enough.”

Kiamo had to consciously stop herself from pacing. If the gods can do it, it must be possible. They use the same magic, and the same principles. The only difference was the volume. Was there any other reason?”

“Why can't a mage do it? Why is it impossible for you?”

“I don’t have the power. Even a multitude of mortal souls would amount to only a fleeting fraction of the divine force”

Kiamo caught hold of something. 

“Souls. Are souls related to magic?”

“Somewhat. Not so much the soul, but the force tying it to the mortal realm. Yes.”

“And enough of them can equate the power of a god?”

“For a fleeting moment.”

“How many would it take?”

“To pull a soul from the void?

“Yes.”

“Even one would be a massacre.”

“How many?”

“Thousands.”

It almost made her lightheaded. Thousands. She could take all the criminals with serious crimes, find a way to pull them from neighboring kingdoms, and maybe scrape up a few hundred. It would take years. She could press her influence to start a war, but then thousands would die. Hayes would hate her for it, and it would become exponentially more difficult to live with herself. 

“How is the force harvested?”

“With a spell, a special siphon.”

“What's the operational range?”

“You're remarkably fluent with spellcraft despite your inability

“What’s the range?”

“The size of this clearing. Any larger and the spell would collapse.”

A war would be even more inefficient than Kiamo had surmised. The clearing could fit thirty people at most, meaning The operation would run solely off a train of prisoners. The act alone would take hours, days even.

Kiamo ground her teeth. 

“What are the other limits of the siphon?”

“It’s what you mortals would call forbidden magic”

“That label is arbitrary. What are the limits?”

“None. The ritual was devised by the gods themselves. Any creature killed within the bounds will have the force of their soul siphoned to the spell.”

“Any creature? Livestock? Plantlife?”

“Yes, though their life forces are minimal in comparison.”

“. . . And the soul of a god?”

“You wade in forbidden territory”

“Would it take the soul of a god?”

“Yes. It would be as a barrel under a waterfall, but yes.

“Then I would only need one?”

Hayes might despise her if he learned of this. Depending on the god, the loss of life might be comparable to war. It was a deathly serious secret, but it was one she could live with.

“A mortal cannot kill a god.”

“There is precedent.”

“I caution you against this.”

“What’s to stop me?”

“It’s nigh impossible.”

“So is my desire”

“You will be punished. You’ll suffer beyond your comprehension.”

“Only If I’m caught.”

“You’re mad.”

“I concur.”

* * * * *

Kiamo woke from the dream with tears in her eyes. She couldn't remember the dream, but she could easily guess it had been about. The feeling in her chest was the same she'd felt before.

She laid in bed, staring at the ceiling. It was made with an odd swirling design, a violent sea of wood and stone that blended seamlessly into one another. The sea was frozen now, The raging storm of magic killed at the opportune moment to form the facet of her bedroom. Magic The marvelous force she could neither use nor see, taken and exploited for something as mundane as architecture.

Hayes snored.

He laid beside her, her husband. He was a large man with an enviable face, and a position reflecting his merits. He was one of the very few decisions she had made impulsively, and the only one she hadn't come to regret. . . Yet.

Kiamo got out from her sheets, sitting on the side of the bed. There was a thought nagging at her that she couldn’t put away. The more it pried at the back of her mind, the more leverage it found to use against her. She pinched her brow, letting out a deep sigh.

Despite her best efforts, the emotions she’d held so tightly escaped. Her face flushed and then leaked. Her nose clogged itself, her throat constricted, and her limbs decided to shake unbeknownst to her. She looked at the small bed across the room, wondering why she hadn't gotten rid of it.