GENESIS
SETH
Seth was lost in his own head as the council arrived. Some dedicated souls had hauled the stone map table all the way from the Shrouded City. Gathered behind it, below the throne, stood Jacen, Ysira, Teheda, and Saraida.
Hesaya Nal Tersero, the new Gatekeeper of Zal Fel, was confined to a chair. Her face drooped from the stroke she’d suffered, her left arm was paralyzed, and even speaking exhausted her. But her white eyes darted alertly about the chamber. Seth had no doubt she carried on a full telepathic conversation with the two Disciples at her side.
Beside the throne, an attendant offered Neri a cup of water. He waved her aside. Seth tried to smile at her—an excuse, a reassurance, an apology—but she didn’t dare make eye contact, only backed away slowly. A few dozen people filed into the audience chamber in varying states of trepidation—Zivoran knights, Guild members, and magistrates; envoys from all corners of the old dominion; even a handful of surviving priests.Two Firstborn lurked at the fringes in their heavy environmental suits.
Seth kept forgetting their names—his head was full of holes, his memory a sieve—and they only ever dared speak to Jacen. They seemed harmless enough. They’d helped get Zivora’s infrastructure functioning again, and some had been acquainted with Urien before his defection. Jacen assured everyone of their commitment. But Seth could not help but wonder whether said commitment, born of terror, would ever amount to loyalty.
Did these two Firstborn suspect Neri intended to kill them as soon as they were no longer useful? Did they realize, from the vitriolic glares they drew from everyone else in the audience chamber, that no one would step in to save them? Maybe they did, and the guilt of their complicity in the old gods’ tyranny compelled them to remain nonetheless. Seth felt rather sorry for them, because that much, he understood.
Ysira spoke first. “By now, you all know who I am. You know who my son is. I will not waste time with introductions.”
She surveyed the assembled envoys and dignitaries, imperious as any Zivoran lady. She wore a dark spidersilk dress with an off-the-shoulder cape, tattoos on full display, hair in a sleek knot at the nape of her neck. Her ashek hung at her hip from a utilitarian leather belt. She had settled into leadership better than Seth ever had, and he found it difficult not to resent her flawless composure as of late.
“You’ve heard reports,” Ysira said, “of a second quake in the north. A tidal wave in the south. More cave collapses along the deepriver. We have no frame of reference for what happened in our orbit, but it could be some time before the planet . . . settles. Zivora alone is safe, and it is imperative that it remain so. Your people are welcome in this city so long as they swear fealty and abide by our laws.”
A magistrate cleared her throat. “With due respect.” The richly dressed woman, who Seth knew by sight if not by name, seemed unsure how to address Ysira. “The agricultural district was in crisis before . . . all this. We lost more crops when the irrigation systems went down. How are we meant to feed an influx of refugees when we can barely sustain Zivora’s own citizens?”
“The farms at Mount Otavok escaped the worst of the damage,” said Ysira. She gestured at Teheda beside her. “And the militia is in the process of clearing the old cities, so we’ll have use of Zal Mar and Zal Fel. The railway system, too—once it’s repaired, we’ll be able to expedite delivery of food and relief.”
“Aid is coming from Alendal,” Saraida put in. She wore armor like Seth’s, the Knight Commander’s sigil pinning her red cape around her shoulders. “My family’s holdings are mostly intact.”
At that, a merchant scoffed, loud enough to draw the room’s attention. “You’re a disgrace to the Ancarath name.”
Saraida started to respond, but Neri stood from the throne.
The air in the chamber took on a static charge. The new High Lord had yet to make any kind of public address and until now had been content to let Jacen or Ysira speak for him.
No one moved. None of them—including Seth—knew what to expect.
“Knight Commander.” Neri addressed Saraida. “This man was a peer of your grandmother’s?”
“He was, my lord,” she affirmed. “As was every other member of the Merchants’ Guild assembled here now.”
“Come forward, then.” Neri spoke the merchants’ names one by one.
It took them a moment but, with varying degrees of trepidation, eight men and women obeyed. Some appeared angry—of course, they’d had the most to lose when the old godsfell. Some, Seth didn’t recognize. Two women glanced at one another in confusion. The shorter of the pair opened her mouth as if to speak, but the taller clutched her arm in silent warning. She was trembling.
“You are each guilty of treason,” Neri pronounced, and Seth’s breath caught. He sounded so much like Ged. “You have conspired to cheat the Harvest, trading those you regarded as worthless for the sake of your own families and fortunes.”
“Cheat the Harvest?”the short woman spluttered. “Exactly how—” Neri’s voice drowned hers out. “You groveled before false gods who cared nothing for you. The old Church’s leaders, and the High Lord who enabled this, have already faced the consequences. Now so will you.” He paused. “We promise our faithful the stars themselves—far greater rewards, whichweactually intend to deliver. It’s a shame you’ll never see them.”
He raised his right hand. The woman who’d protested had the presence of mind to turn, to start to run for the door, before a flash of red engulfed her.
The rest of those assembled backed away, shouting. Guards barred the door. In just as many seconds, seven people became seven piles of ash. Most didn’t have time to scream. When one had killed gods and ripped a hole in the universe, this was child’s play.
Sethdidrecognize a piece of Neri there—that sense of justice, always so strong, so indignant on behalf of the less fortunate. Saraida saw it too; she watched with a rapturous expression.
Seth took no comfort in it, nor could he summon any triumph.
As the eighth merchant quailed, crouched on the floor with his hands over his head, Neri stopped. He frowned.
“You’re a telepath.”
The man looked up, consternation on his face. He started to deny it. Then he seemed to remember he no longer had to fear the Harvest, and relief tinged his voice. “Yes.”
