The Daughters of Vei, Chapter 2

Metan counsels the Kogon about his son; Kivli seeks further clarification from the Goddess.

Previously on Daughters of Vei… Varyta found out Ikune is fucked and argued with his father about it. Kivli has been having visions for seven years, and is pretty sure they’re telling her something bad is going to happen.

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(The Daughters of Vei is a prequel to The Shieldbreaker Saga. You can buy the first novel of the series here.)

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“You know who he reminds me of, don’t you?”

“Come on, Metan. Don’t say it again.”

Varyta-Kogon and his best friend of nearly forty years sat on a bench outside the chieftain’s hall, passing a jug of wine back and forth between them in the dark.

“He’s your son, Varyta. He’s you through and through. And he’s been listening carefully to every fucking thing you’ve taught him since before he came of age. Of course he took some initiative. It’s a good thing!”

“It’s a good thing for him to think he can disobey me and get rewarded for it?”

“Yes. It’s a good thing. He asked the right questions in the right places, too, from the look of it.” Metan leaned in and lowered his voice, in case anyone else besides Alakuz was within earshot. “We do need to be prepared for them.”

“I know.”

“We need to use this summit to solidify everyone’s loyalty. Remember, there’s two tribes with new Oproz’r since last summer. Sutrir and—” Metan paused to take a sip and jog his memory. “Uh, Gvelir, right?”

“Yeah. The Gvelir. And apparently there was some ugliness in the process of deciding that succession; Antaz ul-Marakuz left no living sons, you know. The new man’s a stranger to us. One of his Ohtar.” Varyta frowned. “Zimion ul-Zimion says he’s not to be trusted.”

Metan snorted. “Zimion-Oproz doesn’t trust anyone.” The chieftain of the Khivir was a notorious crank and one of Metan’s favorite people.

“His instincts are usually pretty good in that regard.”

“The Gvelir have not given us any trouble since you were acclaimed.”

“Antaz-Oproz was a friend. I don’t know this new man.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sakara ul-Mikal.”

“I’ll ask around. Maybe a few of our Ohtar know him from old campaigns, Edren ul-Edren or Uskol ul-Sakara or someone. We ought to check with the rest of the men, too. Alakuz!”

Alakuz emerged from the shadows. He’d been standing off to the side in silence: Metan might trust him with anything, and Varyta-Kogon also knew and accepted that Alakuz would surely hear whatever passed between the two of them, but it would not do for a chieftain to share a drink with his bodyguard, and a bodyguard should never relax at his post. Even in times of peace, there was no room for error. Metan didn’t have to remind Alakuz that the easiest man to kill was the one who thought himself completely safe.

“Elakon, Varyta-Kogon.” He nodded his respect, rather than salute, and then turned to his mentor. “What can I do for you, Ohta?”

“The honor guard we’re bringing along to the Tapaa? I want men who are at least a little familiar with warriors from the other tribes.”

“Yes, Ohta.”

As the younger man stepped back into the shadows to keep his vigil, Metan leaned in closer to the Kogon. “How’s he working out, anyway?”

“Fine. No one has tried to kill me in years, though.” Varyta leaned in closer to match Metan. “You’re sure you want to raise him up?”

Metan nodded. “He should absolutely have his own company.”

“He is… not well loved.”

“Of course he isn’t. He’s feared, though, and he’s smart enough to use it to his advantage. And he only answers to you.”

Varyta smirked. “He only answers to you, you mean.”

“Eh. Same thing. Who can even tell us apart anymore?”

“Yeah. Just two old men, ordering the young ones around.”

“Varyta.” Metan’s tone was serious again.

The Kogon rolled his eyes. “I know.”

“It’s a good thing. He’s learning how to lead.”

“I know.”

“He’s coming with us already, right? We should involve him in the plans. These horsemen are more likely to be his problem than ours, anyway.” He spat to ward off bad luck. “So are these new chieftains.”

“Yeah.” Varyta sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. You’re still a pain in the ass, though. And you’re drinking way too much of my wine. Hand it over.”

Metan chuckled. “Of course. Avzaka-min, Matavuz.”

—

Outside the rear wall of the chieftain’s hall stood a circle of small but immaculately kept huts, closed off by a low wooden fence that was as ineffectual as it was unnecessary. No one who knew of this place would dare to enter in hostility.

Within and around the huts milled the Sisters—the servants of peace, the collection of young women who answered only to the Priestess Rakili. They were the tribe’s caretakers, its healers, its midwives, its counselors (at least, the ones Rakili deemed wise enough to serve in that manner), its pallbearers, and its official conduits to the will of the gods (again, the select few Rakili trusted with the responsibility).

Kivli had once, very briefly, been considered for the Sisters. Four days of brawling with the other novices and causing every other type of disruption her twelve-year-old imagination could conjure had put a quick stop to that. She tried and failed to stifle a smirk at the memory. A few of the girls she had fought with were here today: seeing them gasp at her presence and then stare daggers at her as they moved to block her entrance to the little courtyard made the smirk expand into a full-blown grin.

“Hello, girls,” she called out cheerfully. “I’ve missed you.”

Their furious non-response was as delightful as it was predictable. She could do this all day, if it weren’t an urgent matter that brought her around.

“Is your mistress here?”

“Our mistress is your mistress,” spat one of Kivli’s old sparring partners.

Kivli smiled extra sweetly at her. “How foolish of me, Sister Marati. Is the Priestess here?”

“That’s enough, girls,” a voice commanded gently from within one of the huts.

The Sisters stepped aside, and Kivli smirked again and strolled casually past them all. How her mother could have gotten the idea to turn her into one of them would forever be beyond her.

Her smirk disappeared when she came to the entrance of the central hut. Rakili sat calmly on the floor, her hair unbound, her eyes closed.

“Welcome, Berserker. Come join me.”

“Thank you, Priestess.”

“You are aware, aren’t you, that those girls out there simply don’t understand that you also serve our patroness?”

“I wonder if a few of them aren’t jealous.”

Rakili’s lip twitched in amusement. “Jealous?”

“They spend all their time trying to be holy, and I’m the one who’s seen Her Messengers.”

“You’re a pain in the ass even now.” Rakili’s eyes opened and her smirk opened into a genuine smile. “It’s good to see you.”

Kivli smiled back. “You as well.”

Rakili tilted her head. “How can I be of help to you today?”

Kivli’s smile faded. “Right. I have…”

“You have seen something new.”

“Yes.”

“And it troubles you.”

Kivli nodded.

Rakili was also no longer smiling. “You know I have never been entirely convinced of your visions, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust your word.”

“I know.”

"It would be one thing for you to have seen Vei's Messengers once, on one field. We all know they are there with our fighters in battle. It would not surprise me in the slightest if you did see them, you being so obviously beloved." She sighed. "That being said, when someone claims to see the future—"

“I know, Rakili. ‘Consistently inconsistent guesses.’ We’ve had this conversation before.”

“I intend you no offense.”

“I take none.”

Rakili patted the floor. “What do you think you saw?”

Kivli sat down heavily. “It was bad.”

“How bad?”

“I saw all the warriors of the Etela about to be destroyed.” She looked down. “And the gods would not protect us.”

Rakili shifted to sit closer to her. “All the tribes? Not just the Hodrir?”

“All of us.” Kivli paused for a moment. “I didn’t see the end of it.”

Rakili sat quietly for a moment with her chin resting in the palm of her left hand. Then she nodded to herself and looked at Kivli again. “What you’re asking is not wise.”

“I would not ask it, unless it was the only thing I could think of.”

"Drinking the zok n'ved is not reliable. It might not be possible to interpret what you see. For all we know, it might show you something completely different from what you say the Goddess showed you, or nothing at all. It might simply drive you mad. We do not give something a name like 'the Gift Within the Wound' lightly."

“I am already quite mad, Rakili,” said Kivli quietly. “None among the living can stand so close to our patroness and stay sane.”

“Alright.”

“And I know there’s no guarantee, but if there’s any chance at all that I can stop what’s coming—”

“I said alright,” snapped Rakili. She stood abruptly, then took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen you like this.” She looked down, then back at Kivli. “I don’t like it.”

—

Alakuz sat at a small round table in Metan’s front room, looking over the names of the young men who were about to become a new company.

His company.

He knew he should be more excited, but he couldn’t help but envision the looks on his new charges’ faces when they found out who their new Ohta was.

It would probably be very similar to the ones he received from the squadron of men who guarded the Kogon when he took them over.

Some delightful combination of distaste, wariness, and outright fear, subtly different every time and in every interaction. Some of the men would be suspicious of his unnamed paternity and darker complexion. Some would scornfully assume he only got the posting because of his loyalty to Metan, even if it was hard to find a warrior in the tribe who was excited about the prospect of facing him in single combat.

Some might just have long memories. Etela didn’t tend to stop wishing a man dead until he died—or they did. Alakuz would never be completely free of his neighbors’ long memories while he lived.

And that was fine with him, frankly. Beyond the fact that their hatred was a small price to pay for what he’d done, it was a useful reminder of the truth of his position here: he had nothing to lose.

He looked at the list again, scrawled in Metan’s terrible handwriting and approved with the initials Va-Ko. There was some decent potential on this list. It was hard to tell ahead of time who would live long enough to become a real warrior, was what Metan would say, and no new Hodrir had been blooded in three or four years. But some of these boys had shown some talent on the training ground—maybe even a few flashes of real ability.

He would have to teach them to be real killers now.

In some sense, he supposed, there was no one better for the job.

—

When the next headache presented itself, Kivli was ready.

She cracked open the first tiny clay amphora (Rakili had given her two, just in case the first didn’t take) and poured the dark red liquid into her drinking cup.

Rakili had said to take it with some water for safety.

She didn’t.

The first wave of the Gift Within the Wound hit her within seconds and she sank to the floor. She felt her headache begin to fade and it is irrelevant because she is falling through the floor, through the sand, through the bedrock and the grey wastes of the Land of the Unseen Dead, with all its imprisoned souls suffering in silence, and then she is airborne, and she has wings and they are made of fire, because of course they are, because she is one of them.

She knows in her heart that she was always meant to be one of them. She knows that is what she will become when she is killed in battle. It has been ordained. She weeps with joy, and sees a teardrop glisten red as it falls from her face and down through the skies to the battleground at the end of the world.

She looks ahead, sees the enemy again, hears the thunder. She looks directly down and sees the Daughters in the vanguard again with her in their center—which is odd, because if she is down there, is she still herself up here?

And if so, which is her true self?

And if not, who is she right now?

She feels, more than sees, the enemy advancing—then she wobbles in mid-air. Her wings are gone. She is falling. She will fall among the enemy. There is no avoiding it.

She is upside down, hurtling head first towards the chaos below. She searches for herself in the fray in the last split seconds before she crashes to the ground, trying desperately to see if her shield is right side up.

She plunges through the enemy and the ground receives her gently like warm, wet mud, instead of rejecting her and splattering her all over itself like she expected it to. Within the mud she feels skeletal hands all around her, reaching for her, pulling her hair, tearing at her skin, grabbing for her sword—

When did she get hold of a sword?

She squeezes it tight. She must not let go. Her only hope is to fight. She swings it, wildly at first, then calmly, forcefully but methodically, letting her training take over.

Still she sinks, deeper and deeper, still fighting, only focused on the next stroke, not worrying about anything else, not worried about breathing, even—

Wait. Can she breathe?

She can’t breathe.

Fuck.

She’s not even sure she remembers how.

She’s also not sure she needs to. Is she still herself? One of Vei’s Messengers? Something completely different?

Could she be—?

No. The very idea offends her. There will be no blasphemy, even in whatever state the Gift has put her in.

She touches the bottom (of what? who cares, just keep fighting) and realizes her eyes haven’t been open since just before she hit the ground, or whatever it was. She opens them.

She is on one knee in the chieftain’s hall at Kalaa Ukruv’r, sword in one hand, shield in the other. There are bodies everywhere. The floor is slick with death.

She immediately tilts her shield back. The Goddess is right side up—and she is herself again.

Small miracles.

They are coming! calls a voice from another room.

Hold them here! comes her voice from somewhere. This is as far as we let them—

She is drowned out by the crash of combat, of shouting and heavy footsteps and planted legs and shields crashing against one another and the screams of the hurt and the dying and the just plain terrified, and those noises get louder and closer and the room begins to vibrate with it, to hum, to fucking sing with it, and the death song fills her, and she remembers she is Kivli, daughter of no one save the Goddess herself, and joy overtakes her. There is nothing to fear.

She turns back to look at the image of her patroness graven in the great stone chair of Oproz, to draw some extra strength before whatever happens is going to happen, and for the first time she notices there is a man in the chair, and it is not the Kogon but rather his son, but before she has any time to ponder that she hears the enemy burst through the door and she is flying at them, screaming the goddess’s name, lashing out every which way with her sword—and the enemy melts away as she strikes them, and recedes like a black tide, and she has no fear any longer, or even questions, and all she can feel is a warm, ecstatic calm washing over her, and the room is fading into darkness, and she looks down and sees the sword buried in her chest and feels a warm light on her face and

She awoke lying on the floor of her room, groggy and thirsty and with the sun in her eyes. She nodded to herself with satisfaction. It was morning. Her journey had taken the whole night.

Rakili could keep her warnings about interpreting the Gift to herself: it was clear that Kivli would die saving her people.

Just as it should be.

And that was all well and good, but what the hell was the Prince doing in his father’s chair?

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Read Chapter 3

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