PLEASE NOTE: Partway through this chapter you will realize there is a character "named after" KA, the editor/co-creator of this story. There's also a character "named after" myself (who I don't believe is named in this chapter). These two characters are the first characters KA and I played in an RP about 10 or 11 years ago when we first met. We took our online psuedonyms from these characters, not the other way around. Please keep the Mary-Sue accusations to a minimum. :)

Book 2: Deceit is now in progress. The first chuks are posted here: http : / / www. fictionpress. com /s /2625687 / 1/ Voidbringer_Book_2_Deceit (remove the spaces - or go to my profile and select it from there).

VOIDBRINGER

Writer/Co-Creator: Rose Zemlya

Editor/Co-Creator: KA Harchak

Book One

DEATH

34

They rode hard and long for the next two nights; the priest was sure Faustus was doing it on purpose – not, as he claimed, to be sure they would outrun the Zabrans, but rather out of some misplaced, residual anger against Galen. Faustus was punishing him, the priest was sure of it, but for what he couldn’t tell – it was related to the words exchanged after they’d fought the Zabrans, but that, he suspected, like the unnecessarily hard ride now, was symptomatic of a larger problem – something lay between the two brothers like a gulf, and the priest couldn’t fathom what – though, in truth, he suspected neither Faust nor Galen had any more understanding of it than he did.

He wasted a moment wishing fervently that Cattie-Shai had been there, as she often understood Faustus better than the rest of them, save maybe Vidania who would not discuss her twin or his moods with anyone unless he asked her to, or she was tricked into it.

Galen, naturally, never complained, no matter how pinched his face grew, or low his shoulders slumped. Again, not out of the altruistic instincts that often fuelled his decisions, but out of sheer, obtuse stubbornness. Much as Faustus was punishing Galen, Galen refused to be punished, or at least to let Faust know he was feeling punished, and as badly as the priest wished they would both grow up and put whatever it was behind them, he knew better than to get involved. Doing so would only earn him the ire of both, even Galen who normally had infinite patience for the priest and his meddling.

Patience, the priest could not help but note to himself, seemed to be a rare commodity these days.

They arrived, by midnight on the second night, at what was little more than a tiny dock situated in a small cove which curved sharply on its east side, like the tail of a scorpion. An unimpressive looking dinghy was half-heartedly secured to the post as though abandoned there by some shipwrecked sailor, unfortunate enough to land in the middle of the Wastes instead of some pleasanter locale. The sight of it buoyed the priest’s heart above the tension of the last two days – the last month for that matter. The sad little boat was going to take him home, where he would do his utmost to be sure he never, ever had to leave again.

Faust and Galen dismounted in the same cloud of silence that had enveloped them since their argument. Galen’s legs trembled as he stood by the horse, but if the Ghost saw it he gave no indication. Instead he held out his hand for the reigns of both the Zabran horse and the dun. Galen – though obviously in no shape to be doing so – immediately began unloading the horses and moving things over to the dock, ignoring the priest’s disapproving tsk as he did so. Faustus turned his attention to securing the two extra horses to his gelding. The priest was unsure as to where the Creed stabled their horses, but suspected it was in the area. Faustus had told him once that horses were smarter than they looked, and most could find their way home if they knew where they were.

As though the thought was a cue, once Galen had removed the last bag from the back of the dun, Faust gave the gelding a friendly slap on the rump that sent it trotting off into the distance, released from its service at last, its two new friends in tow.

It was not, the priest had cause to observe, unlike the way he’d seen the Ghost slap many a pretty young woman, or a handsome young man, and the analogy amused him enough that he stored it away for future use.

A grunt – a little too winded and short for the priest’s liking – pulled him away from his thoughts and he turned in time to see Galen brace himself against the pole to which the dinghy was tied, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his face drawn and tired. He looked ready to pass out. The Ghost shifted beside him, and the priest decided to chance sticking his nose into it.

“Go help him, for Zasi’s sake,” he said. “He can barely stand.”

“He should’ve asked for a rest,” the Ghost responded, but there was more sullenness than ire in his voice, and the priest took that for a good sign.

“He should have,” the priest agreed. “But then again he shouldn’t have had to.”

The Ghost made a derisive noise, but moved forward to shove Galen out of the way and start loading the bags and supplies into the dinghy. Galen was too tired to stop him. He simply remained braced against the post and watched him. Once he was sure neither would try to drown the other, the priest joined them on the dock and started handing items over to Faust to speed the packing process. He shot a sidelong glance at Galen as he did so. The ex-guardsman was watching Faust with a distracted look on his face; like the Ghost, most of the ire seemed to have left him, and had been replaced with the usual hurt and confusion.

They finished their task in silence, and all three climbed into the dinghy. Faustus took the oars without comment or complaint, Galen untied the rope, and they were on their way. The dark-haired man half-turned in his seat to watch as the Wastes fell behind them, but whatever thoughts or feelings were running through his mind, he kept them private, and the priest was unhappy to realize that the ex-guardsman’s expression was inscrutable. He realized suddenly, perhaps painfully, that for all that remained the same, ten years was still a long time, and there were now pieces of his brother that he had no more right to than he had to the broken chain mail Galen wore, or the desert sabre tucked safely into their bags.

“I wonder,” Galen said distractedly, the sound of his voice after so long a silence startling the priest, “why they didn’t send the Hand.” For a moment nothing broke the silence but the sound of the oars hitting the water, and the growing waves slapping at the side of the little boat.

Finally Faustus spoke in a tone that suggested he’d been wondering as well: “I don’t know.”

At least, the priest supposed, they were talking again.

35

She stood on the top of the cliff that made up the east wall of the cove and watched the small figures below, rowing out to sea. The ocean wind twisted her skirts around her legs as she pushed a crimson-clad toe to the edge of the rocky drop and peered over. From her vantage point she could see a larger ship waiting in the deep water beyond the shelter of cove – it would take the three men to the island at the centre of the world; she’d never seen it, and until recently had never heard of it, but she knew it existed just the same.

It was ironic, really, that a place so far removed from the Wastes – a place most either knew nothing of or else thought imaginary – held the future of her people so tightly at its breast. A smile tugged at the corner of lips as the row boat below disappeared from her sight behind an outcropping. It was time to claim their future for themselves.

She turned around to face the livid, purple face of Hazad, Warleader of the Hand of Zabrahk.

“Perhaps now you will inform us as to why we have directly defied the orders given to us by Disciple Garak?” He demanded with barely-controlled fury. He recognized he was in a compromised position. One did not question the orders of High Priestess, but neither did one disobey the orders of a Disciple – and the Third Disciple, of all things! Garak was closer to Zabrahk and His will than the enigmatic woman in front of him, which meant he had authority she lacked – but she was present and Garak was not, and that afforded her a more immediate sort of authority.

“I see your dedication to your duty is so strong you have momentarily forgotten the proper way to address a High Priestess,” she noted, her voice cold but amused. “Calm yourself. I will deal with Garak when I return to Rak Zemlya.”

“With all due respect, High Priestess,” he said, forcing a wary deference into his voice. She was, perhaps, more rational than many of the other priests, but it wouldn’t do to push his luck, “I would appreciate a reason. I will have to explain why we let the interlopers escape – interlopers, I might add, we were specifically ordered to watch for and destroy. If those men are a threat to the Zabran—.” But she cut him off with a bright laugh.

“Oh, Warleader,” she said, “there are so many threats to the Zabrans right now – and so many of them under the noses of yourself and Disciple Garak – that, honestly, by the time those men could do anything against the Zabrans it will be far too late.”

“What do you mean?” The Warleader demanded, and tensed.

“I mean,” said the priestess turning her back on him and walking towards his men, standing at attention not far behind them, “that the Wastes are about to undergo a…metamorphosis of sorts. Old sins will be punished, and justice will be done.”

Hazad’s temper flared violently. “The Hand is not—!” He cut himself off abruptly and forced himself to modify his tone. “High Priestess, as I’m sure you are aware the Hand is not to be used as a political tool. We are an attack force, to be used against the enemies of the Zabrans – external enemies.” He scowled at the chestnut curls on the back of her head. “If this is related to the business of the priesthood, we are not to be part of it.”

“I’m not talking about politics,” she said, affording him the barest of her attention. She surveyed the twenty men and women laid out before her. They were the best of the best that the Zabrans had to offer. The fastest, strongest, toughest. They were a particularly magnificent sight; dressed in the fierce plate of their station, all bearing the scars of previous battles with pride. Each wore their head bald, to display openly the snake tattoo creeping up from their necks and onto their skulls. Her eyes fell on the serpent and again a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I’m talking about religion.”

She toyed almost idly with the hilt of the sacrificial knife at her waist, running her fingers along the jewels and the relief. It was cool and pleasant to the touch, and Hazad realized with a start that it was not a typical sacrificial dagger – he didn’t recognize it. “How long has it been, Warleader,” she asked in a thoughtful tone of voice, “since Zabrahk abandoned us?” She began to pace back and forth in front of the Hand, considering them. A third of them were hers, instead of Hazad’s, she knew that for certain. Another three would be by the time she was done, and another four she was uncertain of. The rest, she suspected, would resist.

“He did not abandon us,” Hazad snapped immediately, drawing himself up and glowering. “He is testing us. He will return to us when we prove that our loyalty and worth is absolute.”

“A pretty story,” the priestess noted without looking at him, “but a story nonetheless. Told by the Disciples for a century or more to keep the people from panicking when they realize the truth. Would you like to know the truth, Warleader?”

“What I know is truth,” he insisted. She offered him a distracted smile.

“Hazad,” she said almost pityingly, “we’ve worshipped Zabrahk for so long I’m not surprised our people no longer recognize the truth when they see it.” She turned back to the Hand and addressed them, her voice picking up purpose as she spoke. “Zabrahk is not testing us. He has abandoned us. Perhaps he has found a new chosen people, hmmm? Or perhaps he simply tired of our adoration and worship, I don’t know. Not even a Priestess can know the mind of a God of Deceit, except to say that it should come as no surprise that he lied to us as much as he did, or that we believed him as blindly as we did.”

Hazad sputtered for a moment behind. “But…that’s blasphemy! You are a High Priestess of Zabrahk, and should not—!”

“It is blasphemy,” she cut him off sharply, “but only because it’s the truth – and I would not recommend that you continue to presume to tell me what a High Priestess should and should not do.” She narrowed her eyes at him and anger flashed across her face so quickly Hazad dropped into a startled bow to break her gaze.

“Apologies, High Priestess,” he said.

“Apology accepted,” she said frostily, and turned back to the Hand to resume her pacing. “I recognize that this is hard for some of you to accept. It is neither a convenient, nor an easy truth. But I’m sure you’ve heard the whispers. I’m sure you’ve seen the signs. Unless you’re a priest it’s hard to see the extent of it, but I am telling you now. Our prayers go unanswered. Even the Disciples have a harder time calling the spells that came so easily to our predecessors – when Zabrahk was listening. If it weren’t for the mages, we would already have lost the wards.” She paused a moment to study their faces, gauge their reactions, then continued.

“We have lost ground on our northern border, lost it to the gnomes and the orcs and the trolls. We’ve lost it on our southern flank to the elves and to the drow. When in our history have the Zabrans lost ground? Traitors and blasphemers and enemies run from us and take refuge in the City of Haven, and we have been powerless to stop them, or retrieve them, for years. If Zabrahk were with us – if he were truly the God of our people – would he allow this?” She raised an eyebrow at those gathered; their faces remained stony, as was proper, but she could see in their eyes, in the sudden twitch of their lips, that they were considering. “It’s all right,” she said, “you can speak.”

“I had understood,” said one of those loyal to Hazad, choosing his words carefully, “that this was – as the Warleader said – Zabrahk’s way of testing us. His way of allowing us to prove our worth.” Hazad offered the man an approving nod for his statement.

“We have proven our worth over and over and over again since he left us here,” she countered, expression hard but sympathetic. “If we – if the Zabrans as a whole – are not worthy to worship at the feet of Zabrahk, then who is?” She demanded. “What more must we do? We have already proven that we are greater than all the nations of the world. We have stood here since before our history begins, we have held the Wastes, and we have survived it! No one else could live here. No one else could thrive. We have built Rak Zemlya, atop Zabrahk’s Fang – not even the gnomes could have done so! How could anyone – even a god – find our people unworthy?” On this at least, not even Hazad had an answer.

“Why are you speaking of this?” He demanded after a long moment. “What purpose does this sermon have?”

“It’s not a sermon,” she corrected him. “It’s a reckoning. This is the way things are. This is the state of the Zabran nation. And today marks the first day of a new era in our history.”

“What era?” Hazad demanded suspiciously.

“The era in which we realize that ours is not a story of a people unworthy of their god – but a god unworthy of his people. The era in which we cast aside Zabrahk, as he did us, and take a new god – one who knows the worth of the Zabrans and their faith.”

“And you are his prophet, this new god you speak of?” Hazad demanded, making no effort to disguise the incredulity in his voice.

“No,” she said. One corner of her mouth slid up into a smile. “I’m Her harbinger.” She drew her knife so quickly it seemed a blur and Hazad lunged at her, every inch of him sensing the threat she suddenly represented – but he wasn’t fast enough. She spoke a word in the holy tongue and flame suddenly licked the edges of her knife as she ducked with preternatural speed beneath the expertly timed swing of his blade. She dragged the knife down his chest, from his shoulder to his hip, avoiding his heart for reasons he understood inherently. She would want to sacrifice it to this new goddess of hers. The thought sickened him, even as he died.

As his life fled through the gaping wound in his chest – much larger and deeper than any knife should have been able to make – he called out to Zabrahk for forgiveness and vengeance…but no answer came, and the heart of Hazad, Warleader of the Hand of Zabrahk, broke before it stopped.

In the sudden silence after the Warleader’s death, she heard the sound of a sword clearing its sheathe.

“I would have the name of your new Goddess,” snarled the soldier who had spoken earlier, face twisted in outrage, “so that I can commend you to her once I’ve killed you.”

She turned her smile on him and those loyal to her also drew their weapons

“Her name,” she answered, “is KA.”

The soldier lunged at her, but was immediately and unexpectedly intercepted by the woman nearest him, leaping to the priestess’ defence, and within seconds the highly disciplined, exquisitely trained Hand of Zabrahk shattered, disintegrating into a confused melee. Those still loyal to Zabrahk were unprepared for an internal assault, however, and there was little doubt in her mind that the fight would not last long.

In the waters below, the large boat unfurled its sails and turned westward, toward the home of the three men, and the island at the centre of the world. She made a pleased noise.

“And so it begins.”

36

The island continent of Qirast rose on the horizon like a piece of malachite on a sea of blue silk; it was distant and foreboding and ominous; an impenetrable combination of jungle and swamp, treacherous and unkind to any who were not its own. To Galen Voidbringer, standing in the prow of their ship and staring at it hungrily, it was the most beautiful thing in all of Shui.

They were close enough to it now that he could see white sand on the narrow shore, and the mass of trees that stood watch over it. They hid the dark warmth of the swamp behind their heavy branches and thick vines, but he knew what lay within their rough circle. For the first time since he’d left he let himself remember it, fully and without guilt or regret.

He recalled the lazy afternoons of his youth, racing his siblings through the trees, or daring each other to see who would go furthest into the murky waters of the Fourth Ring – the one that held the bulk of the tombs and crypts. Inevitably a stray vine, or snake would brush someone’s leg, and they would all race to the shore again, shrieking and laughing like idiots. He recalled, too, the long days of his adolescence, training with others his age, learning to fight, and command, and kill. Learning what it meant to be kin – and what it cost.

He recalled his first Mid-Summer Festival, when everything in the city was colourful and loud and exciting. The streets were decorated, the people dressed up in brightly coloured outfits, with feathers and capes, and elaborate head pieces that made them look like birds, or dragons, or angels. There was music everywhere, and people danced in the streets, and the Order and the Priesthood and the Creed all put on displays for the citizens. He’d eaten too much and spent too much time running around outside and was sick all the next day – a tradition he’d proudly maintained through the years until his exile – but it hadn’t dimmed his delight in the day. He recalled a later Mid-Summer Festival; in which he’d gotten lost and met his first Unyielding – the undead guardians that gave up their afterlives to defend Qirast. He remembered being terrified at first, but the skeletal warrior had simply laid a ravaged hand on his shoulder, and patiently guided him back to his father.

He recalled yet another Festival – his father and his father’s rival, Ferne Dragonhand, had been assigned to coordinate the Order’s activities that year, and he’d asked Galen for help. Apparently Dragonhand had asked her eldest daughter to do the same. Galen had thought the girl’s hair was a costume at first, it was so red; it looked like fire when it caught the rare beam of sun that worked its way down through the thick canopy…but the memory made his eyes burn, and he hastily moved his thoughts on.

He leaned up against rail and studied the coastline; it occurred to him that he hadn’t realized it was white. The only other time he’d seen it was when he’d left, and that had been at night, and he had been so distraught he was impressed he could remember anything of it. In retrospect, he didn’t know which had been worse – the night he’d left, in which he’d said more goodbyes than he’d ever though he’d have to make, including one with the priest that had at some point disintegrated into a shouting match that never should have happened – or his first night alone in the desert, shivering pitifully in the shelter of a sandy cave, really, fully alone for the first time in his life. No friends, no family, no hope. He’d understood then why everything outside of Qirast was called the world of the dead; why to leave Qirast was to die.

The sound of a door closing pulled him from his reverie. He turned to look as Faustus joined him quietly at the rail – for the third time in two days, as a matter of fact, which lead Galen to believe there was something he wanted that he had not yet found a way to ask for. The lanky Ghost leaned against the ship’s rail and watched Galen for a moment, then followed his brother’s gaze. They studied the island in silence for a time before Galen spoke.

“I can’t believe I’m going back,” he said, just above a whisper, as though afraid stating it outright would somehow make it untrue. Faust raised an eyebrow at him, turning around to lean his back against the bar and tilted his sculpted features toward the sun. He closed his eyes and made a contented noise, like a cat might make.

“Technically,” he pointed out, “you’ve been going back for a month and a half now, if you don’t count all the time you wasted pretending like you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” Galen told him, never removing his eyes from the dark green point on the horizon. “I really didn’t think I could.”

“To tell you the truth,” Faust replied, stretching lazily and opening his eyes again. “I still don’t think you can. I bet the priest my scarf that the Unyielding rip you apart as soon as you get in range.” Galen laughed and turned away from Qirast long enough to raise an eyebrow at his brother.

“Did he take it?” He asked.

“He did,” Faust admitted. “Put his boots on the line for it.”

“Well then,” said Galen with a grin, turning back to the horizon, “I guess I’ve got nothing to worry about. He’d never give up those boots.”

They fell back into their own thoughts, staring in different directions without speaking, though the silence was without enmity or awkwardness. After a long moment, however, something shifted within the quiet, and Faustus made another small noise, this one less content than the last.

“Why did you change your mind?” He asked, deliberately avoiding looking at the older man. Galen shifted his weight carefully on the rail. “About coming home?” He asked, his own eyes still on the horizon and not on his brother.

“Yeah,” said Faust gruffly. There was something in his tone that suggested the question mattered, but nothing to suggest why, or what answer he was looking for. This, then, was why he had come to stand with Galen at the rail so often over the last few days.

“I think…,” Galen said slowly, not entirely sure of his own reasons despite how many times he’d asked himself the same question. “I don’t really….” He frowned and in his peripheral vision he could see Faust turn to face him at last, slate eyes narrowed against the sunlight, as inscrutable as his voice. “I want answers,” he said finally. “I want them so badly I could die.”

“Answers to what?” Faustus asked, but Galen didn’t reply. His expression had grown far-away and troubled, and after a moment of fruitless staring, the Ghost left him to his own thoughts, feeling far-away and troubled himself.

37

The rowboat bumped against the shore with a gentle thud, and Galen suddenly found it hard to breathe. He couldn’t believe it – even now that it was a physical, tangible thing, he still couldn’t believe it. His ten-year exile was over.

He was home.

The priest all but tripped over himself scrambling out of the boat, heedless of the water that lapped at his knees beneath his robe and slowed his progress toward the beach. It was an extraordinarily rare display of eagerness, and Galen and Faustus both grinned in amusement, though Galen was only half paying attention.

Faustus grunted as he braced himself with one hand on the side of the boat and jumped into the water with an unnecessary amount of grace. “I’ll never understand what you two see in this place,” he said, shaking his head and pulling one of the packs onto his back. “Any minute now the priest’s going to start kissing sand he’s so happy to be back, and you look like some kind of…,” he paused in the act of adjusting the bags he carried and gestured with a hand, searching for a word or else just trying to decide how offensive he wanted to be. “Some kind of kid whose just seen one of the Unyielding for the first time and can’t decide if he wants to hug it or wet his pants and run away. That’s what you look like. Right now. Are you even—you’re not even listening to me.” The ex-guardsman was staring at the trees beyond the shore, his face looking very much how Faustus had described. The Ghost scowled at his lack of attention, then grabbed the gunwale, leaned into the boat, and punched his brother hard in the shoulder.

“Faust!” Galen yelped, grabbing his shoulder and tearing his eyes away from the tree line to glare at the lanky man. “What was that for?!” He rubbed his shoulder and scowled, but Faust just snorted and started trudging through the water toward the shore.

Galen realized belatedly that he was the last one left in the boat, and reluctantly abandoned his seat to drop into the water as well. He took his time picking up the remaining bags and strapping them on, attempting to sort through his feelings as he did so. Faustus had been right about one thing – he honestly couldn’t decide how he felt; or rather, couldn’t figure out how to feel only one thing at once. He was happy and angry and terrified and sad and uncertain and relieved all at the same time. His stomach was twisted in knots and a part of him, though it couldn’t bring itself to want to leave again, would have been content sitting on the shores, staring at the jungle and never going in. Ten years ago he’d sworn…

Well, he’d sworn a lot of things, and it wasn’t ten years ago, it was now, even if he was walking into the same situation or worse.

“Hey! Galen!” He gave a start and looked up at the shout. Faustus gestured impatiently from the shore. “Let’s go. The priest still needs to do his stupid ceremony thing.” The priest snapped something at the Ghost that Galen couldn’t make out and the Ghost responded by batting his eyelashes at him in a seductive manner.

Galen’s eyes lifted to the thick green wall of trees and vines and growth just beyond the thin strip of sand, and he forced himself forward to join his brothers on shore. The instant his feet left the water and sank into the white sand of the shore, he felt an odd rush in his mind, like a spot that had been empty was now filled, or a door that had been partially closed was thrown wide. He knew what it was immediately.

I’m here, he said inwardly, addressing the presence that had been conspicuously absent since their last exchange.

Welcome home, said the presence simply. It has been some time.

Are you going to tell me what you want now? He demanded, unwilling to engage in small talk. I want what you want, Galen Voidbringer, the presence replied easily. I want a Qirast united. I want a Qirast restored. I want, it added, your help in accomplishing this. It occurred to Galen that the presence was less of a presence and more of a voice now. It was no longer vague, communicating mostly through impulse and impression. The words, or thoughts, or whatever they were, were much more precise than they had been, the voice itself more distinct. It was an impressively deep, full voice, but with a thick, dusty quality to it. Galen didn’t recognize it, though that hardly surprised him. Perhaps it was one of the Gifted – the Qirastian equivalent of a mage, though in all the ways that counted, not a mage at all - which was not necessarily something that bade well.

Who are you that I should care at all what you say or what you want? He demanded bluntly.

Our mutual goals are not enough reason? The voice inquired politely. Galen’s face hardened.

No.

I led you to your brother when he would otherwise have died in the desert, did I not? The voice pointed out. Is that not enough of a gesture to secure your trust?

Not when it fit in so nicely with what you’re telling me you want, he returned. What about the other half of my question. Who are you?

Ah, well, said the voice, I am afraid I cannot tell you that; not at this time. Now that you are here, and I am so much closer to you, certain…issues have become plain to me which render any decision to reveal my identity to you unwise. Perhaps, when you trust me more….

Trust begins with a handshake and an introduction, Galen returned. The line was one of his father’s favourites and it came easily to his lips.

Trust, Galen Voidbringer, the voice replied seriously, is built on so much more than a handshake and a name.

“Ready?” the priest asked, startling Galen out of his inner argument and bringing him back around to the present. The voice faded to the back of his mind, but he was still aware of it, lurking where he couldn’t reach it unless it wanted to be reached. He debated, briefly, telling the others about it, but abruptly decided it sounded just a bit too crazy to share. Perhaps, once he could get the priest alone and Faust was no longer in earshot….

“Let’s just get it over with,” Faust growled. “Do you even know the words, Mr. Never-Left-Home-Before?”

“Yes I know the words,” the priest snapped. “Just get into position.”

“Oh, yes sir!” said Faust, his tone adding an unnecessary layer of deliberate and impious misinterpretation to the priest’s words. He moved to stand behind the priest and to the left and Galen moved to stand on the priest’s right.

“Uh,” he said, a disturbing thought occurring to him suddenly, “you guys do know that I don’t know the words, right? The paladins can’t leave, so we never learned—”

“It’s easy to follow,” Faustus interrupted him, waving off his concern. “Just do as you’re told and follow our lead.” Galen glanced at the priest who shrugged and nodded. He offered them both a frown, but returned the priest’s nod.

Together all three turned and faced the trees that served as Qirast’s wall, intimidating and unfriendly; her solemn, unyielding border guards. The priest drew his scythe in a smooth motion, holding it in front of himself and moving his lips in some silent prayer. When this was finished, he thrust the butt-end of the smooth wooden haft into the pale sand, and began to drag it across the ground, creating shallow furrows that swept wide and gracefully around and through each other. For a long moment the brothers were silent, listening to the gentle hiss of the scythe through the sand as the priest etched the necessary symbol into the ground.

When the priest had finished, Galen stepped back to survey the final product. It was a series of circles and semi-circles set within each other. Catching his curious study, Faust inched closer. “The two big halves on the outside,” he said in a hushed voice as the priest continued murmuring his prayers to himself, “are supposed to be the Brother Gods – that’s why they’re facing in; they’re watching us, see? The two half-circles n the inside are the kin and the Unyielding, and they’re – well, we’re – supposed to be looking out. The circle on the inside of the whole thing is Qirast. It’s all sort of…blatant really. Not a very nuanced symbol.” Galen offered him an impressed look, to which he grinned. “The last priest who did this for me was a shameless flirt; what was I going to say, no? So I chatted him up about it.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Symbolism wasn’t the only thing he taught me, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Yeah,” said Galen wryly, “I think I got it. You know—.” The priest, still muttering to himself, whipped his head around and the jackal mask glared icily at both of them. They fell silent and shrank back beneath its glare. Shaking his head the priest turned back around, and finally raised his voice loud enough that Galen could make out his words.

“Qirast, our Homeland, I name you. Know me and my charges for kin. Ancestors of the House of Voidbringer, I name you. Know me and my charges for family. Zasi and Amen, I name you. Know I am Faithful and these two are beneath my care.” He opened his arms to the trees in front of them and Faustus nudged Galen to indicate the ritual was almost complete. “We stand before these three – our homeland, our ancestors, and the Brother Gods – and name ourselves. Know us for sons of Qirast, who left to wander the Land of the Dead and have returned to the Origin and our Sacred Oaths, and wish to be welcomed home!”

“Faustus Voidbringer,” said Faust, and grinned widely.

“Galen Voidbringer,” the ex-guardsman said, following Faust’s lead.

The priest raised his head and the sunlight sliced down the side of his mask and glinted off the edge. “Anubis Voidbringer!” he said, with some degree of satisfaction, then turned to face his brothers. “And so,” he said, making the sign of Zasi with his right hand, and the sign of Amen with his left, “we are—!” He stopped mid-sentence and drew up in surprise. Galen opened his mouth to ask him what was wrong, but Faust gestured at him to keep his mouth shut and offered the priest a scowl at the delay. Apparently the ritual wasn’t over.

You forgot to make the signs, the voice pointed out conversationally as the priest fell silent and Galen’s worry grew.

No I didn’t, he informed it pertly.

Ah, said the voice. I see.

“Galen Voidbringer,” the priest said, sounding startled and unhappy. “You have no Sacred Oaths to return to. Without them, you cannot enter Qirast.”

“I…!”

“You said you could get him back in!” Faust hissed at the priest in a startled whisper, then turned to Galen. “Swear them again.”

“No!” Galen balked. “Even if I wanted to, there’s no one to take them. The priest can’t speak for Amen.”

I can, the voice told him. Swear them to me.

Like Hell I will! He returned savagely. I don’t even know who you are! And I won’t take the Sacred Oaths again, besides. I’ll take my chances with the Unyielding.

I’m not sure at what point “sacred oaths” became “The Sacred Oaths”, as though there was only one set. Swear anything, Galen Voidbringer. As long as it is true and you mean it with everything you are. Swear what you will – I will take your Oaths.

“I swear…,” said Galen, uncomfortably aware of his brothers’ eyes on him, “I swear….” His eyes rose to the trees in the distance, and he could see in his mind’s eye the city they hid, and the people therein. He could imagine the Forgotten Temple where his brother had spent the last ten years, a large dark shadow sliding beneath the waters in a never-ending circle around it. He could see Qirast in its entirety, he could see the kin in theirs. He could see his father and his sisters and his brothers. He could see hair the colour of fire, and a pretty mouth open and calling out.

“I swear I will make things right,” he said finally, unable to raise his voice above a whisper. “Whatever it takes, I will make them right.”

Perhaps a touch simplistic, the voice mused calmly, but lovely in its own way.

The priest had gone silent again, but seemed to return to himself much quicker this time, and when he spoke his voice was full of relief. “And so,” he said, returning to the close of the ritual, “we are home.”

Faust let out a whoop of pent-up tension and energy. “Did it work?” He demanded. “Is he in?”

“I…think so,” said the priest, reaching up to his mask to undo the clasps on the sides. “I believe so, yes. The Oath was sufficient.”

“Is that all it takes?” Galen demanded. “All this time when they’ve been telling us we can’t come back if we leave…?”

“No, Galen, most people can’t come back if they leave, no matter how many oaths they swear.” He pulled his mask off at last and pushed his hood back. Long hair so blonde it was white fell thick and full to mid-way down his back; he dragged a gloved hand through it to loosen it up after having had it shoved beneath the hood for so long. He pulled a pin from his pocket, tucked his mask beneath his arm, and deftly pulled the hair back off his face in his usual fashion.

His features were less sharp than Faust’s, less square than Galen’s, but there could be seen a certain resemblance in him to either of his brothers. His eyes were the same colour as Faust’s, but narrower, and where the Ghost’s seemed warm and dark, the priest’s were cold and bright. It occurred to Galen that he didn’t look all that different from his mask after all, if a much paler version. “I told you,” the unmasked priest added. “This is a one-time occurrence.”

“Anubis!” Both Faust and Galen said, and after so long of mentally forcing themselves to refer to him as “priest”, the freedom to speak their brother’s name was a disproportionate release. Anubis looked up and met Galen’s gaze, and despite himself the ex-guardsman laughed and swept his brother up into a bear hug.

“See how old he looks?” Faust demanded, raising an eyebrow. “He’s aged terribly, I think.”

“I’ve been stuck with you for the last ten years,” Anubis countered, turning toward the tree line and starting forward. “That’s bound to give anyone a few grey hairs.”

“I like to think I’ve earned every line I’ve ever put on anyone else’s face,” Faust said with disgustingly convincing earnestness.

“Where are we headed?” Galen asked, changing the subject. “I assume we’re not going to the city, and it just occurred to me that I’m more or less homeless right now.”

“The safest place for you is with the Fury, I think,” Anubis said thoughtfully. “They’re one of the last tribes to avoid going feral, and Cattie-Shai leads them. It’s the Third Ring, so there’s little risk of any patrols finding you – even the Brotherhood knows better than to trespass on Fury territory. Faust and I will have to return to our respective organizations to report back – or, in my case, explain away my prolonged absence somehow – and it would be unwise for what I’d like to think are obvious reasons for either of us to bring you along. We’ll regroup with the Fury once the two of us are done, and discuss our next moves then.”

“All right,” Galen said. “As good a plan as any.”

They crossed between the silent sentinels that stood guard over Qirast, and Galen paused, for just a moment on the edge, casting a glance back the way he’d come – but only for a moment. He turned around as his brothers called him, and disappeared into Qirast’s welcoming darkness. The leaves on the trees rustled in the wind as he passed beneath them, and their branches creaked in satisfaction.

The prodigal son of Voidbringer had returned.