XII. IN THE TEMPLE OF THE STORMLORD

  The stars reflected off the Semperimar as the Pontus’ rostrum slid into thick mud. The neptori clamored to dock the massive warship in the dark. Asho cracked his knuckles, waiting for his cousin to emerge from belowdecks. Admrilia had to be carried back to her cabin by her neptori after the storm, her skin so plaid and her lips so deathly blue that Asho had been tempted to check on her, almost.

  When she surfaced, Admrilia’s shark-like glare made him pleased he hadn’t. She had changed into a dry tunic, her hair coaxed into a tangled braid. Her lips were still tinged blue. Without a word, she stood at attention near the Conqueror’s destroyed tent.

  Asho opened his mouth to say something he would definitely regret later when the Conqueror appeared from belowdecks. He had changed into billowing purple robes, and in lieu of a helmet, a silver circuit pushed down from his ears.

  Helmsmen Ros appeared from the bow. “Thrysne Island, Conqueror.”

  The Emperor nodded stoically. His attention slid to the rich volcanic shoreline. “Excellent. Have the men rest for the night.” The Conqueror nodded his head to centori Tygris. Two more men reemerged from belowdecks, dragging a hooded prisoner between them. Asho’s stomach turned to knots. “Come. We march on the shrine.”

  Asho’s sandals slid through the rich soil, mud covering his shins as they hiked up the steep hill. Thrysne Island was wild, lush with overgrown vines and short, wind trodden olive groves. They followed no trail through the bush by the light of the moon. When they crested the hill, Asho caught sight of the temple at the westernmost point of the island’s volcanic cliffs. It emerged from solid bedrock, supported by simple doric columns three times Asho’s height. The temple complex was austria, stern, unadorned. The prince wondered briefly if the myths were true ad the Stormlord himself had hauled up the massive monoliths.

  The Conqueror strove past storm destroyed columns and into the open air temple. The floor was pock marked by tide pools and overgrown weeds. At the opposite end of the temple the Stormlord sat sentry over his domain. Asho stood perfectly still; his attention darting from the Conqueror’s back as he prayed, out towards the ocean, and then around the shrine. There was undoubtedly power within the confines of the sheer rocks, a humming of ancient wyrd that awoke him carnally.

  The Conqueror stood and lifted the chain from around his neck. Asho was so enraptured by the ethereal rock that he missed his callous nod to the centori. The centori dumped the prisoner at the Conqueror’s feet, roughly removing his head. Asho did his best to make out his features in the moonlight. The prisoner’s hair was rust red, his beaten face covered by a patchy beard that made it difficult to guess his true age.

  “This is Hadris Prodomni.” The Conqueror said. “Once he was in the Iornore legion and rose to great prominence. His loyalty to the Empire and his skill as a scout was unmatched, and gained my attention. I granted Prodomni the honor of becoming a centori to accompany your father’s on their campaign to cull the Bruttanium invasion. This nullius-” The Conqueror said with his first display of raw anger. “Betrayed his countrymen and relayed valuable legionnaire positions to the Brutannium chief.”

  Asho’s ears warmed. Asho knew the rest, this was the man who ignited the events that had led to his father’s death.

  “The legion discovered the deception after the Battle of the Pines. Prodomni was captured attempting to flee across the channel and dragged to Aegtrys in chains. Before the senate he was sentenced as my prisoner and lives by my mercy.

  “Betrayal is the highest crime. When the Stormlord was betrayed by his own siblings, he was cast into the Semperimar for dead. Our god hefted up the ocean floor and molded a man out of the ocean silt on his workbench. He filled in its hollowness with sea water. And as the wyrdling was born Thrysne spoke to him. ‘I am the Stormlord, your father, and the Semperimar is the salt and sea of your veins. Go now, as my legs. March your armies upon the earth and have your descendants recover the stars in my glory.

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  “When my queen mother Ayuan was young, she faced enemies on all sides. By our lineage, the Stormlord’s blood had been diluted through generations of political marriages and turmoil. By the time my mother was entrusted with our people, there was very little of the wyrd left within our family. My mother swore to never marry, never forfeit our line, our legacy, to an outsider.” The Conqueror ran a thumb against the Wyrdstone’s rigid side.

  “My mother sought refuge on this island, and communed with the Stormlord for guidance. The Stormlord answered her call. I was sired, the first wyrdling in the Ashiphiex line for centuries. The salt and sea of the Semperimar flows freely through my veins, as does yours.”

  The Conqueror looked them each in turn. “It is time for your most important lesson. As wyrdlings, as my successors, you must know that the wyrd of a living person resides beneath the sternum.” He gestured with his own knuckles against his breastplate. “Some scholars conceive the wyrd as an anchor, tethering every living thing back to the Skytops. But they are mistaken. An anchor is also a hook.”

  Asho’s inners tightened. The Conqueror was about to show them something far worse than killing a man. The ancient Emperor towered over his sons betrayer, wyrdstone outstretched in his palm. Prodomni buckled forward, his hands flying to his neck. He rasped for air, skin quickly draining to a deadly pale. Prodomni pleaded for his life with burning, bloodshot eyes.

  Asho hardened his gaze: like the Conqueror’s; like the Stormlords.

  The Conqueror drew the wyrdstone back towards himself and Prodomni’s chest followed as if drawn by an invisible fishing line.

  Asho jolted at the resounding snap.

  Prodomni’s skull bounced off the stone.

  Asho’s jaw dropped. He stared at the dead man’s blue face, and then to the Conqueror as he calmly placed the chain back over his neck. The Conqueror had waited ten long years to execute the man responsible for his son’s death. He gulped as the Conqueror faced them. The vindicated Emperor was stoic. His face expressionless.

  “Our poets sing that our sky cannot brook two suns, nor earth two masters.” He said softly, his words falling like the raindrops before a storm. “Yet I am faced with two heirs, as different as the sky and sea itself.” He frowned. “Take this opportunity to reflect and pray. Perhaps the Stormlord will favor one of you and make my choice easier.”

  The Emperor walked through the destroyed porch, heading back to the Pontus. His centori paused to grab Prodomni’s cooling corpse, muscling it between the three of them as they followed.

  “What do we do now?” Asho’s ears flinched at how loud his voice sounded.

  Admrilia ignored him. She bowed stiffly from the waist at the Stormlord, and left the temple in the opposite direction for the cliffs. Asho waited until her footsteps receded. He exhaled, his hand rubbing his throat.

  Asho moved towards the weathered statue. The anger he felt at Prodomni iced into a strange, uncomfortable contemplation. The Stormlord sat in his throne, feet planted. Strong, muscular calves and thighs leading to a simply superhuman abdomen. Asho awed at the bulging shoulders and the thick vascular forearms of the volcanic granite. But the god’s features had been eroded down to a ridge nose and firm set of lips. Asho looked at the Stormlord’s half-face, mentally superimposing the Conqueror’s sharp features.

  Was that the face that told a yount Atesh that he was his son? A full fledged wyrdling? A demigod? Surely for himself being in the nexus of the Stormlord’s power should awaken some connection to the wyrd within him. After all he was a child of the god’s line, he had to carry the power of the Semperimar in his veins. He had to.

  A stone hand curled around the air around a trident. It once would have brushed against the beams of the ceiling. Instead the ancient roof opened to a great gash of stars. The wound poured out mesmerizing indigo, blue, and white light.

  Was that what it was like to tap into the wyrd, to briefly touch the stars?