The Aether of Night

  Prologue

  The prison was absolute. It didn’t just bind his body. It fettered his mind, making it difficult to think. It enclosed his senses, locking him off from creation. Most importantly, it shackled his vast power, holding back the torrent of his wrath. It left him impotent. Agaris was bound by Order itself, the very substance of the universe. It was truly a prison for a God.

  Agaris screamed within his bonds, struggling with rage. Once, that scream would have shaken the universe, shattering planets with its intensity. Now it was swallowed by the void, leaving only silence and anger. No matter how he pushed, no matter how his divine power surged, he could not link himself back to the tangible realm. It was infuriating, and it nearly drove him mad. One thing kept him sane however—a simple emotion, valuable only because of its variety. In the end, it was the curiosity that saved Agaris’s mind. He had to know the answer to a single question.

  Had he won?

  “Agaris,” a voice whispered.

  Agaris struggled, twisting in the void, seeking out the source of the sound. His thrashings prompted a chuckle that rang in the darkness.

  “Decay,” Agaris hissed, speaking the title of the one who had imprisoned him. “What have you done to me?” His voice had no sound, even to himself, but Decay responded to it anyway.

  “I have given you that which you desired, son of the Former,” the voice replied. “Vaeria, the world you desired, is now yours.”

  Agaris bellowed silently in anger. “What good is that if I am shuttered away in your void!” he demanded. “A God is no God if he cannot rule!”

  The chuckling continued. “Oh, Agaris,” it said. “Do not fret so. Your prison is not absolute.”

  Agaris paused. “I can free myself?” he demanded.

  “No, I doubt it,” Decay replied through the void. “But, if you are clever, you will find a way to contact your world, to influence its people. A god does not need to affect a world directly to rule—in fact, sometimes it is better if he does not. I suspect you shall do just fine, all things considered.”

  Agaris continued to thrash, but his rage was tempered slightly. If there were a way out… .

  Suddenly a thought struck him. “What of my brother?” he asked with fear.

  “Imprisoned, like yourself,” Decay replied.

  Terror stabbed Agaris’s immortal heart. “Then he can escape as well!” he said.

  “Oh, not likely,” Decay informed. “His imprisonment is different than your own. You see, I took his mind and memory from him when I locked him away. He has no knowledge or sense—he doesn’t even know who he is.”

  Agaris’s fear quieted at the announcement. Then, however, his rage returned—more powerfully, even, than before. “His mind is gone?” Agaris bellowed. “But, how then can he know of his defeat? What is victory if my brother cannot suffer in his loss?”

  Decay laughed in the darkness. “Oh, Agaris,” he said. “Would you have it the other way? He nearly defeated you. If you hadn’t come to me… . Well, would you really rather have him awake—able to suffer, true, but able to struggle? Able, perhaps, to escape? To defeat you?”

  Agaris paused. He had fought for so long with Makkal over the world of Vaeria. True, this way his brother would not suffer, but he would also no longer be a threat.

  “I can touch the world?” Agaris asked slowly.

  “Well, not the world itself. But you can touch the minds of those who dwell therein,” Decay replied.

  “Do they remember me?” Agaris asked. The void had no time—how long had he been imprisoned?

  “After a fashion,” Decay explained. “They remember what you and your brother did. They’ve actually invented names for you—Slaughter and Despair, the Fell Twins. Endearing, wouldn’t you say?”

  For the first time since his imprisonment, Agaris fell still. His brother was no more, and the world was his. He didn’t trust Decay, of course—once he learned to contact Vaeria, he would have to make certain that his brother never awakened. Still, it was enough. He would not be able to visit Vaeria as he once had, but the prize belonged to him. He had defeated Makkal; had defied the will of the Former himself. He had won.

  And so, despite everything else, Agaris was satisfied.

  Chapter One

  It was not a very good poem. In fact, it was horrible. The verse was unwieldy, the rhymes were trite, and the rhythm was random at best. Raeth wasn’t certain what was more depressing—the knowledge that the poem was so bad, or the realization that it was probably the best work he had ever created. Of course, the poem’s inadequacy was compounded by the fact that Raeth had to read it exactly four thousand times in a row.

  But, there’s only two more to go, he reminded himself. Two cups—one glass, the other stone—sat on the dark mudstone beside him. The stone cup was nearly empty, while the glass cup was filled nearly half-way with blue grains of sand. One grain for each reading of the Ynaa Poem in supplication to the Ancestors. In all, the process of composing a Ynaa Poem, reading it the requisite number of times, then burning it in effigy took about five months. And he was nearly done.

  Of course, once he finished he wouldn’t have much of a reprise before he had to compose another Ynaa Poem, paint another effigy, and begin reading again—he was Dari, a priest. The next poem, however, was another day’s task. For now, there were only two grains left in the stone cup. Two grains which separated Raeth from momentary freedom.

  Raeth selected one of the grains with his long-nosed tweezers, taking it from the stone cup and dropping it into the glass one. Then he began to speak again, the words to the Ynaa Poem slipping easily from his mouth. There was one nice thing about reading the same poem over and over again for four months—it quickly became rote, leaving the mind free to think. If it weren’t for this one consolation, Raeth probably would have gone mad. As long as he had time to think and ponder, he was all right.

  The sounds of other Dari chanting in their cubicles rose through the Irae’s cool mudstone hallways. Most of their poems were far better than his own. Raeth could recognize beauty, he just couldn’t produce it himself. The other Dari’s effigy paintings were also far better than his own. Raeth’s painting, which sat on the pedestal before which he knelt, was a crude thing. It was supposed to represent Darro, his brother, standing amongst the Ancestors of Raeth’s Line. In actuality, it resembled something more akin to several lumps connected by lines. Raeth’s ability to draw made even his poetry look inspired.

  But, of course, that wasn’t the point. It didn’t matter that Raeth wasn’t artistically talented—Dari was his Place. Someone in the family had to be Dari; someone had to say the Ynaa to the Ancestors, especially in a family as important as Raeth’s. If anyone needed blessings from the Ancestors, it was Vaetayn—Raeth’s father, Emperor of the Aedinor Imperium.

  Raeth finished the Ynaa reading a few minutes later. With a sigh of relief, he took the last grain of sand and dropped it from one cup to the other, then began the final recitation. He tried not to pay too much attention as he spoke—even after saying the poem over and over for four months, its words bothered him. He knew they shouldn’t. It was a simple Ynaa Poem, one that requested an obvious blessing. This day marked the beginning of Saedin, the Festival of the Unremembered. It was a special time for High Aedin families—the day that fathers chose brides for their sons. Darro just wanted to petition the Ancestors for a wise choice—a woman of beauty and virtue.

  Though, of course, Raeth thought with a smile, knowing Darro, virtue isn’t half as important to him as the other.

  However, even as Raeth tried to ignore his Ynaa, he found himself focusing on its words. Perhaps it was because this was the last recitation, or maybe it was the proximity to Saedin and the Bride Choo
sing, but for some reason his mind seemed drawn to the lines of poetry he had written so many months ago.

  “Ancestors of our Line, blessed High Aedin who watch and protect, remember Darro on this day of need,” he heard himself intone.

  Day of need. If things had gone a little bit differently, Raeth would be the one standing before the Senators and nobility this day to receive a bride. That was not to be, however. Only two of Emperor Vaetayn’s sons would receive brides. Darro, Raeth’s younger brother, was one. Hern was the other. Hern, Raeth’s twin brother, Heir to the Imperium throne.

  “Guide Vaetayn’s choice toward a bride beauteous and well-bred, a woman fit of Darro’s Line and Aether.”

  Line and Aether.

  Raeth’s eyes flickered down toward his palms, which were held forward in supplication. A bright rose-colored gem sat implanted into the center of his right palm. His Aether, the Aether of Amberite, Aether of the royal imperial Line. If things had gone a little differently, if his Aether Bond had been just a little more powerful… .

  The last few words of the Ynaa dribbled off his tongue, and Raeth sat for a moment, stunned. He was done. He had finished Ynaa before, of course, but he had been anticipating this event for some time now. Because of his place in the Imperial Line, Raeth was required to abandon his Dari robes on festival days and instead stand with his brothers and father, not as a priest, but as a member of the Imperial Family. Freedom—for a day, at least.

  Raeth barely contained his joy as he stood, snatching his cups and the effigy painting. He stepped into the outer hallway, a dark mudstone tunnel that resonated with the chantings of dozens of Dari, and began to walk, his head bowed. He moved as quickly as was respectful through the lantern-lit tunnel, leaving the cubicles behind and walking out into the main chamber, an enormous domed room.

  Various Dari, clad in thick brown robes, moved through the large mudstone room, mixing with Irae patrons. Some of the patrons were High Aedin—distinguished by the large cloaks that marked their nobility—but most were regular Aedin or citizens of non-Aedin blood.

  Raeth scanned the room, ignoring the normal people—most of whom were regarding one of the many paintings or sculptures that lined the room’s walls. Raeth quickly located the Dari he wanted—a short, robed man who sat on a stool beside a painting easel by the far wall.

  Raeth hurried forward, approaching the figure. A small group of people stood around the Dari, watching him paint. Raeth pushed gently through them, but then paused as his eyes fell on the painting.

  “Jaenor!” Raeth breathed, “It’s beautiful.”

  The shorter Dari turned, smiling as he saw Raeth. The painting before him was nearly finished, and it depicted an amazingly lifelike glowing man, his arms outstretched, smaller figures rising in creation from the light before him. Vae, the ultimate Ancestor, the first High Aedin. Raeth had rarely seen a painting so fine, even amongst those created by the great Dari of the past. He’d known Jaenor was gifted, but he hadn’t realized just how far the younger man’s genius went.

  “It’s nothing,” Jaenor said with a blush.

  Raeth took a step forward, approaching the canvas. Talented Dari didn’t waste their time saying Ynaa poems and painting effigies that would just be burned. The real geniuses, like Jaenor, created timeless pieces of art, ones that would either be sold for fabulous sums or hung in grand chambers for all to see.

  Raeth just shook his head. “You’re amazing,” he said simply. “If I had a tenth of your talent, I’d count myself lucky.”

  Jaenor blushed again, his youthful, freckled face uncomfortable. He was a quiet boy, one not prone to restlessness or thinking beyond his Place. Jaenor was the perfect Dari. Talented, obedient, and reverent. The opposite of Raeth.

  It’s not just his talent that I’m lacking, Raeth thought with a shake of his head, still looking at the painting. The form of Vae with its glowing hair, robes composed of the light itself, and its incredibly life-like face stared back at him.

  “How did you get it so realistic?” Raeth asked.

  Jaenor paused, then he leaned in close, his eyes flashing with eagerness. “I saw him, Raeth,” he whispered. “In a dream, several months ago. I haven’t been able to get the image out of my mind.”

  Raeth paused. “A…vision?” he asked with surprise.

  “I don’t know,” Jaenor said with another blush. “Maybe. I’m not that important—it was probably nothing.”

  He’ll be made a Vo-Dari by the end of the year, Raeth realized. He’s been chosen. It was the highest honor for any Dari. Being chosen as a Vo-Dari put one within the inner circle of the religious elite. It was a position reserved for the most talented, and most spiritual, Dari.

  “You deserve it, Jaenor,” Raeth said, laying his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Jaenor was only sixteen, three years Raeth’s younger. He was young to be given such an honor. A stab of jealousy tickled Raeth’s heart, and though he tried to push it back, he couldn’t quite ignore it. Jaenor was so talented, while Raeth would never be more than sub-average.

  If only father had chosen me to be Shaeth or Sworded instead of Dari… . Raeth thought. However, he immediately cast the thought aside. It wasn’t fitting. He had been given a Place, and should be thankful for it. If he was a mediocre Dari, it wasn’t because he’d been chosen poorly, it was because he had too much jealousy and because he questioned too much.

  Jaenor looked up at him, frowning slightly. He hadn’t understood Raeth’s comment—of course he wouldn’t realize that his vision, and his paintings, would make him Vo-Dari. Jaenor was too humble to even consider such a thing—most Vo-Dari weren’t chosen until their thirties. But, if Raeth had a talent to offset his poor artistic skill, it was the ability to read people. Raeth understood the way things worked, he could guess how people would act and react. Jaenor would be chosen as Vo-Dari. He was certain of it.

  “Do me a favor,” Raeth said, handing Jaenor the painting of Darro and a copy of Raeth’s Ynaa poem. “Would you burn these for me at the ceremony tonight. I’d like to do it myself, but. …”

  Jaenor nodded, accepting the papers. “You have duties to attend to. I feel sorry for you, Raeth,” he said. “How do you do it every year? How do you leave the art and the beauty behind to go back…out. Don’t you feel naked without your robes?”

  “I get by,” Raeth said, patting Jaenor on the shoulder. “I’ll see you after the festival.”

  Jaenor nodded, and Raeth turned back toward the crowd. Where was Darro? He said he was going to meet Raeth in the grand chamber of the Irae. Raeth shook his head—his brother wasn’t known for his sense of punctuality. Raeth moved to the side of the room, where a table stood covered by small glass containers. He selected one—a diamond-shaped box about a third the size of a man’s palm—and poured the blue sand from his glass cup into it. Then, he handed the box across the table to the glassworker. The worker turned to his flame, sealing the box and forever imprisoning the sand inside of it.

  Raeth took the box back, once again scanning the crowd, looking for his brother’s massive form. As he did so, his eyes fell on something odd. A figure had joined the crowd watching Jaenor paint. Not a person, but something else—something tall, with massive, muscled arms, and short brown fur. A Gol.

  When did he get here? Raeth thought with a shiver. The Gol’s long arms stretched all the way to the floor, and its seven-foot tall body stood several heads above the room’s other occupants. As Raeth stared at it, the creature turned, deep blue eyes meeting Raeth’s own—eyes Raeth couldn’t read, could barely understand. He’d met Gol before—the creatures tended to spend a lot of time in the Irae monasteries. They had a penchant for human art; despite their massive, imposing bodies, they were very gentle creatures. Or, at least, that was what everyone said. They always made Raeth uncomfortable for some reason.

  “Raeth!” a happy voice bellowed through the quiet room.

  Raeth rolled his eyes, barely turning in time to see a large, rectangular figure appr
oach and grab him in a massive hug.

  “Hello, Darro,” Raeth mumbled as Darro released him from the hug, grinning broadly and stepping back.

  Darro was as big as men came. More squat than tall, he still had a few inches on Raeth, and he had a far more well-muscled form. Darro had always been strong, but his years fighting on the northern border had obviously magnified that trait. Like most High Aedin men, Darro wore a pair of formal trousers and a stiff, militaristic shirt, pulled tight on the sides by several golden clasps. He also wore a broad-shouldered High Aedin cloak—red, to proclaim him a member of the Amberite Line.

  “By the Twins, Raeth!” Darro announced. “It’s good to see you!”

  “And you, my brother,” Raeth said, smiling himself. “And, you probably shouldn’t swear. This is a holy place, after all.”

  Darro flushed, suddenly realizing how loudly he had been speaking. “Well, I don’t care,” he said, though he did lower his voice. “I haven’t seen you in months! These priests keep you cooped up like a Khur woman.”

  Raeth shrugged. “I’m Dari. It’s our Place.”

  Darro snorted. “You’re also the son of the Emperor. You can do what you want.”

  Raeth rolled his eyes. “Not everyone can get away with whatever they want like you can, Darro. Some of us are more… .”

  “Conforming?” Darro asked.

  “Responsible,” Raeth corrected. “And, all things considered, it’s good that some of us are. Here.” He reached into a pocket of his robe and produced the sand-filled glass diamond.

  Darro’s eyes brightened. “You finished it?” he asked.

  “All four thousand recitations,” Raeth said with a nod, handing Darro the glass container.

  “Four thousand… .” Darro said. “I don’t know how you do it. I’d run myself through with my sword if I had to do something like that.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Raeth said with a shrug.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Raeth,” Darro said, his voice growing low as he regarded the sand-filled box.