The Wizard of Eventide

Book 3: The Goddess War

by Jon Skovron

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Epic Fantasy; Dark Fantasy

Synopsis

The Wizard of Eventide is the thrilling conclusion to Jon Skovron's epic fantasy trilogy that began with The Ranger of Marzanna. 

Release date: July 12, 2022

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 448

Sample

It was said that Lady Marzanna, Goddess of Winter, Change, and Death, was heedless of suffering. But this was not so. Marzanna knew suffering intimately. After all, suffering chased after death like a loyal puppy, and it was often both prologue and epilogue to change. Every action she took was in some way rooted in suffering, and she was always aware of that fact.

It was true, however, that Marzanna did not consider suffering something to avoid. Rather, she viewed it as the surest way to forge the tools that she required. If it at times seemed she delighted in the suffering of her servants, her pleasure came not from their pain, but from the anticipation of what they would become after.

Some might suggest that this did not necessarily discount sadism as a character trait, but she was not troubled by such paltry concerns.

The Eventide was an empty space in the truest sense. There was nothing there. Not even the laws that governed existence. So anything might be there. Perhaps a tower so vast it could look out over all the world at once. And it was from this tower that Marzanna cast her gaze upon her mother’s creation.

Ah, there were those funny little islanders with their life-twisters and swordmasters. Someday they might do great things, though not anytime soon. And directly above them was the vast and varied landmass of those who looked ever outward, seeking mysteries elsewhere that they had squelched within themselves so long ago they no longer remembered ever having them.

But those places were not Marzanna’s present concern. Instead, she looked to the other side of the world. To the land of Rangers and travelers, of death and iron. A place that held its breath, tense and straining with the swell of impending convulsive change. It was like the surface of a bubble, at once delicate and surprisingly resilient. If the wind blew a bubble, it merely bobbed away, still intact. To pop it required more focused pressure, either internal or external.

Marzanna’s gaunt hand stretched out above this bubble. Her sharp bone finger hovered over the glistening surface of the world. It would be so easy to burst…

But no. Not this time. This time was special. This time, change would consume all, without exception. And to make certain of that, it had to come from within.

All she could do, then, was wait and trust that the suffering she had wrought would bear fruit.

Sonya Turgenev Portinari thought she’d understood summer. But she’d been wrong.

Summer in Izmoroz was a gentle kiss—an all too brief period of golden sunlight and soft breezes. The ferocity of spring had settled down and the sharp brittle fingers of fall did not yet grip the land. Game was plentiful, crops flourished, and people seemed a little more at ease. The days felt blessed, and the nights cozy and sweet. That was summer in her homeland, and she had never considered that it might be quite different elsewhere.

But in the Blindaje Desert, which stretched across the easternmost part of Raíz, summer was as hard and mean as any Izmorozian winter. The sun penetrated everything with unrelenting brutality. The air was similar to the inside of an oven, so that Sonya’s lungs felt like they were baking with every breath she drew. Yet she didn’t sweat. Or rather, she did, but it evaporated the moment it appeared on her skin. Everything felt dry. Desiccated. Like the long-dead flesh of a sluagh gorta.

The evenings offered relief from the heat, but brought such a sudden surprising cold that some nights Sonya had to don her fur-lined Ranger coat. More than anything, it was this violent shift between these two climates that made the environment such a trial.

Sonya had always thought the Great Western Tundra of Izmoroz to be both the harshest and the most beautiful place in the world. But now she wondered if this desert might claim that title. After all, there was a beauty to it as well. The clear blue sky somehow seemed more vast than it did up north, and every sunset was a work of art to rival the greatest Viajero painters. But along with that beauty came an austere severity that brooked no weakness. How could life persist in such an inhospitable land?

Yet it most certainly did. Lizards and snakes lay in the shade of the scraggly acacia trees and shrubs that dotted the dusty landscape. Buzzards occasionally flew overhead, perhaps hoping Sonya and her brother would succumb to the heat. And sometimes she could hear the scrabble of small mammals beneath the ground.

Life was tenacious, and it persisted no matter the challenge. This, Sonya knew, was what kept the balance between Lady Marzanna and her sister, Lady Zivena. Implacable death and intractable life. Mikhail had taught her that the balance was necessary. Otherwise, Mokosh, the Damp Mother Earth, would wipe it all away.

As Sonya guided Peppercorn across the craggy landscape, she wondered how much of that legend was true. How much any of it was true. After all, Mikhail had told her she must always treat the Lady Marzanna with reverence. He’d warned that any hint of disrespect would be met by instant punishment. Yet the last time Sonya and the goddess had spoken, after she’d been stabbed to death by Rykov, Sonya had been downright belligerent, and Lady Marzanna hadn’t even seemed to notice. Was it possible that the Rangers didn’t understand the Lady as well as they thought they did? Perhaps they had gotten much of their religion wrong, and the Lady was simply too preoccupied with other things to correct them. If that was the case, then everything must be reevaluated. Including herself.

Will I still be me? Sonya had asked just before the Lady brought her back from the dead in Colmo.

The Lady had answered with a question of her own: What is “me,” I wonder?

At the time it had felt like mockery. But now Sonya asked herself if the goddess had been trying to teach her something. To reveal some deep truth of the world…

Or maybe this desert sun was starting to addle her brains.

The surrounding air rippled with heat, and at times she was certain she could feel her skin actually cooking. She’d inherited her mother’s fair Izmorozian skin, and much of it was now an angry, painful red. Her brother, damn his luck, had inherited their father’s olive complexion, which had turned a rich, appealing bronze.

She glanced over at him now, still amazed at how much her little brother had changed during these last few months. Once they’d left Colmo, he’d removed his imperial officer uniform and dressed in the light airy fabrics favored by Raízians. Though his blond hair was shot through with gray, and the creases in his face were deeper than those of a man twice his age, he actually looked healthier and happier than Sonya had ever seen him. Well, perhaps not happy. He smiled and laughed more, but there was also a haunted look behind his eyes that would occasionally manifest into anguished guilt. He carried his burdens openly, with an unapologetic earnestness that perhaps only he could muster.

She was surprised to find that she was actually impressed with the spoiled brat. At least a little.

Then Sonya’s pointed ears picked up the faint trill of a flute. Her golden fox eyes swept the area, but all she saw was more scrub brush and rocks wavering in the heat.

Wavering perhaps a bit too much.

Sonya was no stranger to the illusions that could be cast by Viajero music, and Jorge had warned her that there might be Viajero hermits living out here in the desert. Potentially hostile ones.

And then she caught it. A flash of the distinct scent of sweat-evaporated skin. It was better hidden than Lucia’s illusion back in Colmo, which meant this Viajero was potentially more powerful. Or at least more clever. But it still wasn’t enough to hide completely from Sonya’s enhanced senses.

She kept Peppercorn on his slow trod, but her lip curled up over her fangs. “We’re not alone.”

“Oh?” Sebastian squinted as he looked around. His eyesight had gotten so bad, Sonya doubted he could see anything farther than thirty feet away with any clarity. “What should we do?”

“Nothing yet,” said Sonya. “It could be they’re just hiding themselves because they want to be left alone.”

“And if not?”

“Then they’re trying to ambush us. But that’s already failed. So either way, we have the upper hand.”

“Unless there’s a third possibility,” said Sebastian.

“What third possibility?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “How would I know? But nobody can think of every eventuality. Not even you, Yasha.”

She sniffed. “Yeah, well, for now, we should hold off on attacking.”

“Who said anything about attacking?”

“Nobody,” she said quickly.

Sonya had changed quite a bit after her most recent resurrection in Colmo. Every time the Lady brought her back, she was a little more beast, a little less human, both inside and out. This time, her long black hair had changed to fluffy white fur. She didn’t mind that so much. But she’d revived amid the blood and carnage wrought by the imperial attack on the city, and the sights and smells had nearly driven her into a bestial frenzy. While those heightened feral instincts had calmed considerably once they’d gotten away from the chaos of the city, they hadn’t left completely. Instead they had settled into a constant low buzz in the back of her mind that eagerly looked out for any opportunity to hunt. And she could not deny that the feeling was at times rather pleasurable.

“In all likelihood,” said Sebastian, “it’s some poor recluse who’s as frightened of us as we are of them.”

“I’m not frightened,” objected Sonya.

“Wary, then,” amended Sebastian. “Regardless, we’re not enemies, so we should be able to pass by peacefully with no harm done on either side.”

“I suppose,” said Sonya.

She should have known better. She should have remembered that Sebastian possessed the survival instincts of a week-old puppy, and that in the wilderness, one did not need to be an enemy to become prey.

Jorge Elhuyar liked to believe that nothing was truly unfixable—that every problem had a solution. But when he looked out at the sheer scope of devastation wrought on his beloved Colmo by the recent imperial attack, he struggled to hold on to that belief.

He stood on the observation platform that had been constructed on the roof of the Anxeles Escuros guild headquarters with his brother, Hugo; his sister, Maria; her semi-secret lover, the Viajero Lucia Velazquez; and the guild chief, Javier Arzak. They all gazed silently at the city’s uneven skyline under the midday sun. It should have been a hazy summer paradise, resplendent with brightly colored buildings and gleaming tile roofs. But instead, a large section of it was charred and broken, as though it had been smashed by a great flaming fist.

“It has a certain beauty,” murmured Lucia as she leaned against the ramparts.

Jorge looked sharply at her. “I beg your pardon.”

“Yes, I’m inclined to agree with my brother,” chimed in Hugo. “All I see is a travesty.”

Lucia gave her habitual cavalier shrug, which always felt somehow judgmental to Jorge. As though other people’s concerns were foolish or trivial.

“A Viajero sees beauty in everything,” she told them, her eyes still fixed on the rubble below. “Even terrible things.”

“When I was young, I remember feeling something similar on the battlefield,” Javier said in his deep, rusty voice. The old mercenary was resting on a stool after their steep climb to the platform, his bad leg propped up. “For some there is a… thrill in witnessing chaos.”

“But you don’t feel that anymore?” asked Maria, who stood beside Lucia at the ramparts.

Javier looked at her with his heavy-lidded eyes. “A person grows weary of such things, until finally there is no thrill to be found at all on the battlefield.”

“Yet you fought anyway,” pointed out Jorge.

A tired smile broke out on the guild master’s bearded face. “Battle may no longer excite me, but the potential for real and lasting change? That gets even my sluggish old blood pumping.”

Hugo’s expression grew tense. “I suppose… it is easy for one to forget that change is even possible.”

“For those who live comfortably, yes,” Lucia said, still not bothering to look back at them. “For the rest of us, it is all that keeps us going.”

“Now see here,” objected Hugo, taking a step toward Lucia. “If you’re just going to—”

“Stop it, you two,” chided Maria as she stepped between them. “Lucia, don’t bait people. Hugo, don’t fuss over minor disagreements. We must all work together if we are to move forward.”

“Move forward?” asked Hugo. “Toward what exactly?”

“Toward what?” Lucia turned and squared herself up to Hugo, her pointed chin thrust out pugnaciously as though already anticipating a fight. “Building a free and independent Raíz, of course.”

Hugo seemed dumbfounded. “Building an independent… Are you kidding me?” He gestured to the broken skyline. “Let’s take a step back and first ask how we’re going to repair what we already have without imperial funds or supplies. No, let’s take a step further back and ask how we’ll stop the empire when they inevitably return with an even larger force than before. After losing Izmoroz, they surely can’t afford to lose us, too.”

“We will beat them back just like we did last time,” declared Lucia.

“We beat back nothing,” said Hugo. “According to my brother, they would have decimated us if they hadn’t been forced to call off the battle and return to Magna Alto.”

Lucia turned on Jorge, her expression offended. “Is that what you think?”

“W-well, I mean…” Jorge held up his hands placatingly as he backed up to where Javier sat. “It’s just that I had a good vantage of the entire battle and it did seem to me that once they brought the siege engines to bear, they had us at a serious disadvantage.”

“We would have rallied,” snapped Lucia.

Jorge doubted that but kept silent. Why was he so intimidated by her? Sure, she was a renowned Viajero singer with great artistic and magical ability. But he’d encountered more intimidating people in the past and been far less cowed by them. Not even the presence of the fearsome Uaine warlord Elgin Mordha had prevented him from speaking his mind. So why did he continue to hold his tongue against this tiny diva?

“What interests me most,” said Javier, “is the reason behind the imperial army’s sudden departure. Señor, you said there may have been a coup at Magna Alto?”

“According to Sonya and Sebastian,” said Jorge. “Although that was just secondhand information they received from an enemy, so it’s impossible to say if it’s true.”

“Oh, it’s true all right,” said Lucia.

“How would you know?” demanded Hugo.

An odd moment of panic flashed across Lucia’s face, but it was so fleeting, Jorge couldn’t even be sure he saw it. Then she gave a dismissive wave and turned her gaze back to the skyline. “The Viajero have ways of knowing things.”

But it appeared Javier had also seen the brief hesitation, and would not be put off so easily.

“Lucia, the Viajero have many astonishing abilities, but in all my years, I’ve never known omniscience to be among them.”

“Yes, well…”

She kept her eyes fixed outward, not looking at the old mercenary. Was it wrong that Jorge felt some pleasure at seeing Lucia squirm beneath the steely gaze of the Xefe?

But after a moment, her expression firmed into defiance.

“I happen to know someone who was at the palace and escaped just before the coup took place.”

Javier’s eyes narrowed. “Friends at the imperial palace? I was not aware that you kept such… illustrious company, Lucia.”

Her face creased into a scowl. “There is a lot about me you don’t know, Xefe.”

“This seems to be true.” Javier did not speak loudly or with much emphasis, yet there was a weight to his words. “And I hope, most honored Viajero, you will forgive my bluntness when I say that is not acceptable. If you expect the mercenary guilds to continue an alliance with you, we must know what other alliances you already have.”

It hung there for several seconds.

“I don’t like being pressed, Xefe,” Lucia said ominously.

“And I don’t like being kept in the dark,” Javier said lightly.

After another tense moment, Maria put her hand on Lucia’s shoulder. “Please, darling. Just tell them. They’ll need to know eventually.”

“You know who it is?” Hugo asked in amazement.

Jorge was fairly certain his brother still didn’t realize that Lucia and Maria were lovers. Despite his savvy when it came to business, Hugo could be astoundingly clueless about other aspects of life.

Maria gave Hugo a weary look. “Of course I do.” Then she gazed expectantly at Lucia.

Lucia groaned. “Fine.” She turned to Javier, though she still couldn’t quite seem to meet his eyes. “My friend is Ambassador Ceren Boz of Victasha.”

Javier let out a low whistle.

“You’ve been colluding with a foreign power?” asked Hugo.

Lucia did her shrug again, but this time it didn’t have the same conviction as before. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Then she turned to Javier with a surprisingly anxious look. “Isn’t that right, Xefe?”

Javier thoughtfully pursed his lips within his dense, braided beard. “Only sometimes, Lucinita.”

“Well… what about this time?” Jorge asked.

“That, Señor, is what we must now determine.”

Galina Odoyevtseva Prozorova stood on the outer wall of ancient Gogoleth, her hands clasped behind her back. The gentle Izmorozian summer breeze tugged at her golden hair and pale blue gown as she gazed down at the people gathered in the yard below.

“Well, Andrushka, I do believe they’re starting to look like soldiers.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” rumbled the hulking Ranger Andre beside her. His small bear eyes blinked slowly beneath the afternoon sun.

The old imperial garrison had been repurposed as a training and education center for the recently formed Izmorozian militia. Galina watched as young men and women who hailed from all over the country were drilled on simple strength and endurance training exercises in the central yard. The intention of such activity was to temper their bodies as well as acclimate them to working together as a unified group. In the first few weeks, their efforts would have been laughable if the continued freedom of Izmoroz had not rested, in part, upon their success. But now they moved as one unit, fluid and confident. It was time for them to begin weapons training, which would be led by Andre. His clawed hands might prevent him from holding a sword or bow now, but he had a lifetime of experience and skill in weaponry and had survived the Winter War. If he could impart even a portion of his knowledge on her new militia, they would be in respectable shape.

But combat training was not the only pursuit of the Izmorozian militia. The younger boys and girls were gathered in one wing of the officers’ quarters where they were taught to read and write, for they would be the message runners of the militia. Galina had been reading extensively on military strategy, and it was evident to her that swift and precise communication between various units within an army was essential.

Then there were the adults that Galina deemed too frail for combat, who were being trained in administrative tasks. She hoped that at least some of them would show an aptitude for strategy, planning, and leadership so that they might assist with some of the more mundane aspects of running the militia. Galina could not be everywhere at once, after all.

“Let us offer our congratulations to the latest batch of countrymen and women ready to defend their homeland, Andrushka.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Galina had seen no reason to reinvent the wheel, when so much of the garrison remained intact. That included the wooden scaffolding lashed to the outer wall of Gogoleth, which had allowed soldiers to easily ascend the wall for guard duty. Galina was astounded they had not been torn down during preparation for the battle with the Uaine, but she supposed it was just one more indication of Franko Vittorio’s grotesque arrogance. An arrogance that now seemed poised to engulf the entire continent.

“I have been thinking about a comment you made the other day,” Galina told the Ranger as they made their way down the zigzagging wooden scaffold steps. “About Vittorio possibly benefiting from supernatural aid.”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

Andre rarely offered anything in the way of useful ideas. Galina knew that this was because he had sacrificed so much of himself to the Lady Marzanna that he was barely human anymore. As such, he sometimes struggled with even the most basic intellectual pursuits. But he was a wonderful listener, and very occasionally, his simple, magic-driven view of the world shone a light on ideas that she herself would never have considered.

“If we are to believe Ambassador Boz’s account, Vittorio was successfully executed in Magna Alto, yet returned to life shortly after. I have heard the Lady Marzanna is capable of bringing people back to life.”

“She is, Your Majesty,” agreed Andre. “In fact, to be considered a Ranger, one must first slay a polar bear with only a knife. Then one must wrap themselves in its skin and kill themselves in order to seek audience with the goddess.”

“What a grotesque initiation,” said Galina. “But is she the only supernatural entity who can bring someone back from the dead?”

“No, Your Majesty. Her sister would also be capable of such miracles.”

“The Lady Zivena, Goddess of Spring.”

“Yes.”

“In all the poems, Zivena is described as kind and beautiful, but possessing a ferocious temper,” Galina said. “Have you ever met her?”

“I have not had the honor.”

Galina glanced at the stoic Ranger but could not determine what opinion he might have of his sworn goddess’s sibling and rival.

“Well, we should keep her in mind as a possible… adversary in the future. I suppose if we have Lady Marzanna on our side, it’s only fair for Vittorio to have Lady Zivena.”

“The two must always balance each other,” he said. “Or else the world will be unmade.”

“That sounds foreboding. But I’m generally not inclined to put much stock in prophecy.”

“It isn’t prophecy, Your Majesty. It is a promise.”

“I see…”

Galina still struggled with the supernatural aspects of her alliance with the Rangers. Supposedly the Lady Marzanna was their ally, yet Galina had no idea what the deity’s larger plans or ultimate goals were. Goddesses, she decided, made for good poetry but lousy comrades.

Galina and Andre reached the bottom of the scaffold and headed toward the soldiers-in-training, but they were intercepted halfway across the yard by a very irate-looking Lord Konstantin Belousov Levenchik.

Levenchik had not made a favorable impression the first time Galina met him, what with trying to use his influence among the other nobility to pressure her into sex. And he had done little to improve upon that impression since. But at least he was fully clothed and no longer attempting to “seduce” her. In fact, in the month since Galina had taken power, his behavior had become increasingly antagonistic. It turned out that his famously affable demeanor evaporated once he no longer had the money to indulge in his many vices.

“Galina, I say!” Levenchik stalked toward them, his perfect curls bouncing. “This is a—ghuuck!”

Andre calmly grabbed him by the throat and lifted him into the air.

Galina watched the noble squirm and writhe for a moment. She did not savor it, exactly. But perhaps it was not so disagreeable to see the man who had once put her in an uncomfortable situation now in one of his own.

“I’m sorry, Lord Levenchik,” she said cheerfully, “but I must insist on a certain level of decorum, which includes a use of proper titles. Flap your hands a bit if you understand.”

He gave up his futile struggle to free his neck from Andre’s grip and waved his hands with a desperate energy that suggested he might soon faint.

“Wonderful. Andre, you may let him go.”

Andre took that command quite literally, and Levenchik dropped onto the grass with an audible thud.

Galina beamed down at him. “Now, my lord, how may I be of service to you?”

“Gali…” He glanced at Andre as he struggled to his feet. “Your Majesty. I wish to lodge a complaint.”

“Oh?”

“It was bad enough that you recruited so many of our servants for your army that we can hardly run our households anymore.” Levenchik brushed dirt off his satin trousers as he spoke.

“Izmoroz appreciates your sacrifice, my lord,” Galina replied.

“That’s just it! We have already sacrificed, and now you’ve begun diverting our tithes as well? How on earth will we afford to restock our pantries and cellars?”

Galina looked thoughtfully up at her Ranger’s large, impassive face. “I believe seeking employment is the traditional means of attaining money, is it not, Andre Medved?”

“It is, Your Majesty.”

Levenchik gaped at her, his face shifting slowly from pale to flush. His eyes were so wide it looked uncomfortable. “Are you suggesting that I, Lord Konstantin Belousov Levenchik, get a job?”

She smiled. “I’m so glad we understand each other, my lord. As your queen, I strive constantly to be in open communication with my subjects.”

“But that’s… it’s…”

“I realize seeking employment can be a daunting task, so perhaps I should help get you started. Your interest in food and drink is legendary, my lord, so you may find cooking here in the mess hall for our brave soldiers a satisfying vocation. We do have a great many mouths to feed, and I know they would be ever so grateful to have someone with your refined palate seeing to their needs.”

For a moment, it seemed language had left Levenchik entirely. He sputtered, growled, and grunted like a cat being forcibly bathed. Galina observed it all with a calm, slightly concerned expression.

But then he rallied and drew himself up to his full height, which admittedly was not much higher than Galina herself. “This is untenable! I will not stand for it! We will not stand for it! Do you hear me, Galina Odoyevtseva Prozorova? You have made enemies this day!”

Then he spun on his heel, slipped slightly in the dirt, and hurried back across the yard. As he entered the city gates, he passed Masha coming from the opposite direction. She glanced at him with a worried look, then continued over to Galina and Andre.

“Your Majesty.” Masha curtsied.

“Ah, Masha,” Galina said. “How are things at Roskosh Manor?”

“Tense, Your Majesty. I’m afraid your mother is still struggling to adapt to the new Izmoroz.” She glanced back in the direction Levenchik had gone. “Another complaint from the nobility, Your Majesty?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Galina. “I had hoped my father would be able to keep the peace, but since he couldn’t unify the nobility before, I suppose it was wrong of me to think he might be able to do so now.”

Andre cleared his throat with a low rumble. “These complaints of theirs sound more like threats each day.”

“Yes,” agreed Galina. “I fear we will need to do something about that sooner rather than later.”

As a parent, Lady Irina Turgenev Portinari had never seen much value in punishing or even reprimanding her children. Why should she be cruel and discouraging when the world was more than willing to fill that role? She had always advised her children on the proper course of action, of course, but ultimately allowed them to make their own decisions. She would then follow that up by allowing them to suffer the consequences of their choices.

To some, this “hands off” method of child-rearing might have seemed at odds with her paramount goal of protecting the surviving members of her family. But to her mind, such people failed to understand that one of the foremost things a child must be protected from was their own parents.

She also resented the implication some people made that her parenting method was somehow easier than constantly meddling in the lives of her children. Beneath her stern Izmorozian beauty and sharp retorts, she still worried about them constantly. And quite frankly, it was exhausting.

Irina felt particularly strained at present. As a prisoner of the emperor regent, she had been given no information regarding the current fate of either of her children. Her son had been ordered by the now dead empress to go and kill her daughter, something he had assured Irina he would not do under any circumstance. But once he and the rest of the imperial army had left to put down the insurrection in Colmo, Vittorio had seized power. He had then revealed to Irina that Sebastian’s longtime comrade, Sasha Rykov, was a servant of Vittorio’s and under strict orders to slip a knife into Sebastian’s ribs the moment he stepped out of line. In all likelihood, either Sebastian had been forced to kill Sonya, or he had been killed himself for refusing to do so.

Unless…

No, it was probably foolish to even consider the idea. She had prayed to the Lady Marzanna and offered herself, body and soul, if her children would be saved. And there had been a moment when she had wondered if her prayers had been answered. The awkward but gifted Kantesian, Friedrich Cloos, had presented her wi