“Duty,” Nerian said, his expression thoughtful, “can weigh on a man until it buries him like an avalanche of snow. Yet, if you strive hard enough, if you keep working, you will find a way to dig out from under its weight.”
“Unless it kills you first.”
“There is that.”
“Are you sure there’s no other way around this?” Stefan glanced out to the setting sun, its glow lighting the sky in purple shades that made the Cogal Drin’s rocky shoulders even more beautiful. “Maybe leave it to the Granadian Tribunal? They owe much to you. After all, you backed them for years. Without you, they would not have a presence in Ostania.”
“I would not take it that far. I believe they would have found a way at some point.” Nerian stroked his oiled beard. “Their refusal is partially why I am undertaking this action.”
“They refused to help? Why? This concerns the shade, and it’s not as if they know of your plans for Seti’s full revival.”
Nerian clasped his hands behind his back. “According to their High Ashishin, we effectively drove the shade back into Everland and the Rotted Forest. They feel invading Everland itself and breaching the Great Divide to eradicate the shade’s minions once and for all is not worth the risk.”
“Despite the ruin the beasts brought the world since their creation?”
Nerian pointed out to the southwest where a distant white glow suffused the horizon. “The Granadians think they are safe behind their precious Vallum of Light. Why should they feel any different when the Sanctums of Shelter has protected them from the Great Divide for countless centuries?” A sneer played across the King’s face. “They are not overly concerned with what happens to this part of the world, unless it interferes with their plans.”
Stefan almost said he agreed. They themselves might be better served leaving well enough alone. Ostania had survived for a millennia defending against the shadelings. Either the giant, black-haired wraithwolves that at times stood like men, or the darkwraiths-creatures of smoky mist in the shape of men. More often than not, the shade’s taint transformed some hapless adventurer seeking fame or fortune in the crevasse that was the Great Divide into one of the beasts. Stefan cringed at the pictures his mind conjured from the years he’d done battle against the monsters.
However, the tomes of the Chronicles spoke of a time when the creatures would rise again to scour Denestia. Supposedly, if the prophecies were to be believed, the Setian would pave the path to free the world from doom. Thinking of the books conjured memories of Stefan’s old wet nurse, Shin Galiana who often told him the stories. To many, they were little more than myths. Stefan wasn’t so sure.
Part of Nerian’s words rang true for the Knight Commander. Granadia’s Tribunal had done what none else accomplished: Their Dagodin, Ashishin, and High Ashishin had driven the creatures from their land and helped Ostania accomplish the same. Why should they risk more for kingdoms unwilling to convert to the Streamean religion despite all they’d done to help in the past?
“Would you care if you were them?” Stefan asked.
“If I were them, the world would already be mine to do with as I wish,” Nerian replied absently, his gaze seemingly locked on something in the distance.
Stefan frowned. This was not the Nerian he remembered before going off to war. Sure, they were both ambitious and both lived for glory, but the sound in the King’s voice spoke of a longing, a need to make the entire world bow to him. When they shared their dreams in the past, they wanted the Setian to stand above all but without oppression, without tyranny. Nerian sounded almost … jealous. “You intend to take on the Tribunal, don’t you?”
Nerian’s gaze shifted to the Knight Commander.
Stefan almost flinched at the cold pits there. “Why? They helped to give us much of what we hold now.”
“Give?” Nerian scowled, showing his teeth. “They gave me nothing. All I have I took.” He paused. “You helped me take. You, my son, are the only one I need to thank for what we Setian accomplished. The rest are fodder.”
Stefan opened his mouth to tell the King he was wrong. Without the men who worshipped them, the men Stefan convinced to follow him and the King’s wishes to their death, they would have nothing. The same men Nerian now denied the peace Stefan had promised them. Had it not been for them, the Setian would be a shell of their current glory. How had the King changed so much in three years? The man spoke as if life was little more than a tool to be sharpened, used until it broke, cast away, and then replaced. Stefan bit his tongue. Instead, he said, “Thank you, sire. You honor me.”
Eyes again drawing to something distant, King Nerian nodded as if he expected nothing less than gratitude. “The Tribunal wishes to make it seem as if they have no real interest in Ostania or even Everland, but indeed they do. They may not be able to rule us by force yet, but they conquered many Ostanians mentally. If only I saw it sooner.”
“What do you mean?”
“Streamean worship, of course.” Nerian pointed toward the towering statues of Ilumni and the other gods at the temples in Benez. “With their Devout priests and priestesses, the Tribunal has accomplished what no army could. They have subverted the rule of the Ostanian kingdoms with their promises of unity of the gods, harmony between the three religions, and equality between men and women.” Nerian spat. “They tout compulsory education and universal language as if we are semi-intelligent beasts. Through the knowledge they garnered from the Chronicles, they lead people to think the gods reveal their will through the Devout. The fact every one of the priests is also a mender only helps to make that more believable. Look around you some time. Their influence is rampant. Despite their promise of unity, which god do most of us pray to? Ilumni. When something ill happens, to whom do we direct our curses, our blasphemy?” Nerian turned to meet Stefan’s gaze, letting the answer hang.
Amuni, Stefan thought, but kept silent.
“I see you begin to understand,” Nerian said.
“You might be right, but they also brought stability with them. Denestia has thrived from a world wreathed in war to one more prosperous. Take Granadia for example. When was the last time you heard of a major war there? They have small conflicts, sure, but nothing on a scale like we do.”
“Because the Tribunal rule their own as we should. Absolutely.”
Stefan shook his head. “Let’s say this is true, that the Tribunal does intend to rule all of Denestia. How would you begin to stop them?”
The faraway expression clouded the King’s face once more. “A concentration of Mater exists in the Great Divide. It must be why the Erastonians guard it so rabidly. I will have that power even if it means defeating the Erastonians themselves. Not that I would need much excuse to fight them. Their inability to prevent shadelings emerging from the Divide has led to enough damage to other lands. The time has come for someone else to take on the responsibility.” Nerian’s gaze shifted to Stefan. “You saw how powerful a few shadelings can be. Imagine if we managed to harness their power without the taint attached. We would not only complete a conquest of all Ostania but Granadia as well.”
Creeping, cold fingers eased down Stefan’s spine. The King had lost his senses. To dream of controlling Mater? The power legend said the gods created? One that had turned mountains into flatlands, forests into plains, seas into deserts, created the Vallum of Light and the Great Divide itself? The power existing within everything, but as the madness that eventually took all Matii who wielded it proved, was unstable at best and needed to be handled with extreme caution? Either the King’s ascent was corrupting him or he was going mad. Stefan had heard the voices inhabiting the essences as they whispered their malevolence in his days of training to become a Dagodin. He cringed. Could such an ailment be afflicting the King?