The Snake and the Spider

Yrit Yvilirin was a man of many names. One had been given to him at the moment of his birth, bestowed upon him moments before his beautiful mother passed away. Finaril Lyxiv lived only for a few years before he was abandoned. Another he had taken up as a young man on the streets of Xexera. That particular name was used only among the urchins, and even then it was scarce. As a thief, he stole his next name from a noble family he somehow managed to connive his way into, displacing the son they thought they knew. He always chuckled when he remembered Vixin’s face that day, the day he managed to convince the Harvester King that his own son had been an evil urchin.

Of course, Xaxin had ended up being killed because of it, murdered by his true blood. Punishment for banishing his son, Yrit supposed.

Yrit had kept that name for a very long time. Yrin Xanilar grew strong under the care of the Harvester King, grew to be a stoic young man perfect for inheriting the throne. He even married and had a son, a beautiful boy his wife decided to name Radiran. Yrin had loved that boy, loved him more than anything in the world. He would spend endless hours playing with, teaching, leading his son along the path that would turn him into everything Yrin had been denied as a child. And when Radiran decided that he would rather be a soldier, serve on the Barabak Wall and protect the people of Quasexa, Yrin had been supportive. Whatever his son had wanted, he would give it to him.

Radiran was well, yes, and he had a much better bond with his father than his brother Ventoros had. Ventoros was a quiet, shy boy who never interacted with his father the same way. And, as such, Yrin never truly cared for Ventoros. He only began loving him when he was taken by the Jods.

For a time, Yrin was unsure what to do. Mourn? Rejoice? It was all so confusing. After years passed, he finally managed to come to terms with Ventoros’s passing. He rejoiced in the glorious station his son had been given but grieved for the time they had lost.

Then Vixin had murdered Xaxin, and Yrin suddenly found it necessary to steal a new name.

Yrit shuddered, the razor almost slipping in his fingers. He set it down on the table, desperately trying to still the shaking that had creeped into his limbs. Why today? Why would all his deeds and misfortunes plague him today? Today, of all days! He would be coronated as the rightful Harvester King, given the position that Vixin had taken from him years before. Anxiety now? Preposterous. Today the world would be set right.

“Jifriir?” Yrit called, picking the razor up and beginning his shave anew. A dark skinned slave dressed in a simple servants garb stepped quietly into the room.

“Yes, my lord?” He said bluntly, no emotion in his voice or his expression.

“I think I want you to bring out some of that Junarian fragrance.” Yrit ordered. “I don’t want to smell like you used to at my coronation.” He put the razor back down onto the desk and stroked his smooth chin. “Understand?”

“Perfectly, my lord.” Jifriir nodded. He walked gracefully out of the room, hands clasped behind his back. Yrit smiled as he walked over to the window and threw open the curtains. Jifriir was the perfect servant- quiet, unassuming, punctual, and absolutely loyal. Quasexan slaves had always been Yrit’s favorite to use. They never questioned his orders, never had any thoughts of rebellion. He wondered what kind of tactics the slave drivers used when bringing them from the Wastes. It would be useful in quelling the serfs, should they ever decide that his rule was too much.

Careful now, Yrit. He thought to himself. You aren’t king of Glausiania yet. One step at a time.

“Sir.” Jifriir said behind Yrit. “A message from Junar.” He held out a thin, creamy envelope. A message from the Palace.

“Ah, perfect.” Yrit smiled, nodding at Jifriir. “Probably an update from that weasel Kiijal.” He slit the letter open and pulled the small slip of parchment out. In his glee, he failed to notice the single drop of blood that marred the elegant stationery.

Yrit. The small message read. Emperor Kiijal murdered by captive Flen. Gestarin of Glausiania joined by three Jods. Jikosa attempting to secure the throne. We await your orders.

There was no signature.

Yrit sucked in a deep breath, sitting down quickly on the bed. Jifriir raised an eyebrow and took a step toward his master, one of the first showings of concern Yrit had ever seen in the unassuming servant.

“My lord?” He said, and Yrit thought he could detect a hint of actual compassion in his words. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, Jifriir.” Yrit cut in, stopping Jifriir’s motion. Any closer, and the servant would be able to notice the shaking in Yrit’s hands, the blood that had drained out of his face. Best if he didn’t know. Jifriir may be loyal, but Yrit didn’t trust anyone these days. “You may go fetch my robes now.” Jifriir hesitated, but, after a moment, he nodded and exited the room purposefully.

Yrit continued to take in deep breaths, desperately trying to calm the shivering that had suddenly taken him. Why, in Aia’s name, had Kiijal tried to capture and hold a Flen? What sort of madness had led him to believe that he could contain such a thing? The Flens were demons, horrible monsters that no cage could contain. Kiijal must have been a special kind of fool if he thought he was more capable than that.

But Yrit wasn’t even half as worried about that as he was what Kiijal had told the King. Had he told Gestarin anything? How much did Gestarin know about Yrit’s plots?

Was everything he had done for naught?

Calm yourself. Yrit heard a voice call from the small mirror he kept underneath his pillow. You aren’t in any danger yet.

“How much do you know, Liranif?” Yrit snarled, ripping the mirror out from underneath the cushion. It was not his face that stared back at him, but a mottled, rotten face that only slightly resembled his own handsome features.

Not very much, my lord. Liranif cackled, a horrible noise that grated in Yrit’s mind. My counterpart grows more tight-lipped as the confrontation grows near.

“I don’t care what he tells you, Liranif.” Yrit growled, slamming the mirror against the bed. “I only care about what you learn in your ephemeral jaunts.”

Again, Yrit, Liranif said with a frown, I can only learn so much. Kiijal never said much when he was near my hearing. His green eyes narrowed. Perhaps if someone hadn’t told the emperor about me, I might have been able to be a better spy.

“Water under the bridge.” Yrit snapped. “Now, tell me what you know!”

Liranif sighed. Very well. He looked directly at Yrit. The Void is expanding.

Yrit made a face. “Come again?”

The. Void. Is. Expanding. Liranif spat out, as if he were speaking to a dumb child. Honestly, what part of that isn’t clear?

“All of it!” Yrit shouted. “What do you mean, the Void is expanding?”

I mean, Liranif growled, the Void itself is growing in diameter. It. Is. Expanding.

“How is that even possible?” Yrit whispered, running his fingers through his hair. It seemed like something from a fairy tale.

Liranif smiled, an evil expression that showed rows of rotted teeth. And that, dear Finaril, is the one question I do not have to answer.

And, for the first, time, Liranif left, leaving Yrit to stare at his own dazed expression in the glass.

* * *

No matter what her mother said, Inalla always knew best. Nothing Riina said could make her daughter think otherwise. As petulant as a twelve year old could be, she firmly believed that she knew more than anyone, possibly even more than Aia himself.

So, naturally, when her mother told her to stay away from Highlord Yrit’s carriage, what else was there to do?

She darted and jumped between the throngs of Var and serfs who tried to get a glimpse at the new Harvester King. Each one murmured to the other, weaving a convoluted tapestry of a tale about his rise to power. Some said Highlord Yrit killed the previous King with his Blade, winning him the throne. Others said that Cixusa died of grief at the state of the world and commanded Yrit to right the wrongs of it. Another even suggested that Cixusa had really been the son of a Bedseller and that Yrit was the rightful heir.

Whatever the case, Inalla didn’t care about the story one bit. She just wanted to disobey her mother.

A Var’s plated elbow caught the side of her head, and she fell sprawling to the ground. Not a single person noticed- they were all too busy looking at the incredible gilded carriage that Highlord Yrit rode in. And spectacular it was. As tall as a man on horseback and painted a bright gold, it scattered the light of the phantom sun in glorious arrays that dazzled the eye. Such a display of extravagance and beauty hadn’t been displayed in the streets of Matrikai since its founding. Inalla picked herself up off the ground and began pushing through the crowd once more. She had a destination in mind, one that very few, even the servants, knew about.

Ah, there it was. Hidden behind an unassuming steel grate lay the hidden way to a world of wonder that was Inalla’s, and Inalla’s alone. A labyrinth of dank tunnels that were infested with rats and almost feral children, the dark underbelly of Matrikai was a piece of infrastructure that no one wanted to admit they thought about, much less considered fixing. That was just fine with Inalla; she could escape the suffocating confines of the palace through it.

She unlatched the grate with the nimble fingers of a child and slipped inside as Yrit’s carriage rounded the corner. The resulting shout from the gathered people masked any evidence of her hasty retreat. Slipping quietly past the nest of snakes that lay just inside, Inalla made her way through the tunnels with the loping gait of a gazelle. All of the people pushing and jostling to get a glimpse of Yrit from the streets were idiots. There was only one real place that one could watch the coronation from: inside the Diradis chapel itself. Thank Aia that someone thought to put a sewer grate inside- it was the perfect way for Inalla to watch everything. And it was the perfect way for her to do it without her nosy mother noticing.

“Hey, scrub.” A harsh, guttural voice called from a side tunnel. “Where do you think you’re going?” A dirty, twig of a boy jumped out from the darkness and started jogging alongside Inalla. “What’s the hurry?”

“Go away, Plod.” Inalla snapped, hiding a smile on her face. Plod always managed to be funny, no matter how hungry or dirty he was. “I have important things to do.”

“Like what?” Plod laughed. “Comb your hair? Count your dresses?” He punched her playfully on the arm. “A princess shouldn’t have that much to do.” That was another thing about Plod: he treated her like just another one of the crew. Not like some pampered, stuck-up princess.

Good.

“Don’t you know what’s going on up there?” Inalla asked, ducking underneath a hopeless tangle of cobwebs. “Haven’t you heard the shouts, the fanfare?”

“‘Course I have.” Plod scoffed, his bare, calloused feet actually scraping against the ground. “I thought it was another one of your pious, puffed up parades that you royals like to do all the time.” He threw her a winning smile, thought it was slightly marred by his yellowing teeth.

“The Harvester King was murdered a few nights ago.” Inalla said bluntly, not noticing a look of intense surprise flash across Plod’s face. “Highlord Yrit is taking his place.”

“Oh.” Plod said, his plodding gait never ceasing. “Why aren’t you up there watching the parade then?”

“Because you’d have to be stupid to try and watch it with all those people around.” Inalla rolled her eyes, though Plod missed it because of the gloom of the sewer. “We’re going straight to their end destination. The Diradis chapel.”

Plod stopped in his tracks. “One problem I see with that, scrub.” He gestured to himself. “I don’t happen to be devout in my worship, nor am I really dressed for the part.”

“Don’t worry.” Inalla assured him, grabbing his hand and dragging him further through the tunnels. “I have the perfect spot.” She grinned. “And you don’t even have to take a bath!”

* * *

“Oh great Aia,” The Harvester pronounced slowly and grandly, gesticulating gracefully with his arms, “we pray fervently for thy blessing upon this man as he seeks to do thy will for the world.” He held up the Harvester crown, a crimson circlet that gave the appearance of connected drops of blood. “On this joyful day, we, the Diradis of Oaiao, crown Yrit Yvilirin as Harvester King over all the church!” He placed the crown reverently upon Yrit’s sweating brow. It fit snugly, almost as if it were made for him; and, in a way, it was.

The men Yrit had paid to attend the ceremony began to cheer, which roused the rest of the crowd. Hooting and hollering and general havoc engulfed the normally reverent Harvester chapel, but the Harvester King paid it no mind. Today was a glorious day! Yrit thought it good for the people to celebrate a bit. They would remember the beginning of his reign as a happy day. It would make a good impression in the minds of the people- Yrit needed that.

And yet, as much as he wanted to, he could not truly enjoy this day. This day was marred by the revelation Liranif had given him: the Void was expanding. And not just some metaphorical, dramatic sense of the word. According to Liranif, the Void was literally expanding, growing bigger, threatening to swallow everything in its wake.

How was that even possible? The Void was a fixture on Oaiao, never changing. When one couldn’t trust anything, one could always count on the Void. The Void was an anchor of the world in troublesome times. So, then, why now? What made this day and age so special that the single most constant thing in all the world started to forsake its bounds?

Yrit turned toward the crowd of people that had gathered in the chapel, desperately trying to empty his mind of the troubles that plagued it. He should enjoy this fanfare, this praise. He had certainly earned it in the course of his life. So, he took a deep and luxurious bow that made the crowd go wild with applause. If Yrit was going to serve as Harvester King, by Aia’s name, he would enjoy it before the day was out!

As Yrit straightened up from his bow, he caught the eye of a strange man in the back of the room, the only man who was not wild and crazed with the fervor of the moment. Compared to the other people, this man was like a mountain, stoic and unmoving. He was bald and muscular, dressed in a black vest and black trousers. He had his arms clasped behind his back in a gesture that was both menacing and deferential. As they locked eyes, Yrit thought he could see a thousand different emotions in the deep, brown eyes of the other man. Intense hatred, cold calculation, fervent fondness, and layer upon layer of confusion. The man had so many feelings in him, Yrit half expected him to explode. What was more, Yrit swore that the expression the man wore looked familiar. The thought tickled the back of his brain, but, no matter how he tried, he could not remember. Not knowing how to react, Yrit simply nodded once to the man. The man nodded back before turning to leave.

As he turned, Yrit swore he could see four different Bloodblade hilts on the man’s arms: one on each shoulder and one on either wrist. Before he could get a second look, the man was gone.

Ah, now, see. Liranif chuckled. That isn’t what I expected the family reunion to look like.

Yrit was walking toward the throng of people, ready to receive their adoration, but Liranif’s words almost made him trip and fall straight on his face. He recovered quickly, still smiling at the people, even though a thousand questions coursed through his mind.

He asked the question that sat first and foremost. What? He was so startled, he didn’t even look around for the mirror that was inevitably around him.

Oh, you didn’t recognize him? Liranif said with mock surprise. How quaint. A father doesn’t even recognize his child.

Yrit was stunned. But… I… I thought that he…

The Flens got to him? Liranif laughed. True, but none of you humans seem to actually know what the Flens do on a Harvest. You thought that you were simply sending him to his death, testing to see if heinous acts cause a man to be Harvested. But really, you were recruiting him for the ranks of the Void.

Harvested men become Flens? Yrit scoffed. That’s impossible. The Void would be overcrowded by now.

Humans. Liranif said, and Yrit could sense him scowl. You don’t understand anything about how the Void works.

Before Yrit could come up with a retort for that, he was distracted by the graceful body that blocked his path through the church.

“Highlord Yrit,” Queen Riina said with a slight curtsy. “Or, should I say, Highking Yrit.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” Yrit said, returning the gesture with a bow. “How may I assist you?”

“It’s strange, your majesty.” Riina said, ignoring the question. “Quite suspicious actually. Highking Cixusa dies mysteriously, and the man who is chosen to inherit the throne just happens to be my husbands most cunning councilman?” She shook her head. “Some might find that to be more than just mere happenstance.”

“I assure you, your majesty.” Yrit said with a laugh. “The death of Cixusa grieves us all, and I only take the Harvester throne out of duty.”

“There is a fine line between duty and desire, your majesty.” Riina said pointedly, narrowing her eyes. After a moment, she laughed and waved her hand. “But, come now, we mustn't spoil this glorious day.” She looked around. “Have you seen my daughter anywhere? She ran off during the fanfare.”

“I’m afraid I have not, your majesty.” Yrit said with a shake of the head. “I have been otherwise occupied, you see.”

“Ah, well.” Riina curtsied once more. “Good day, your majesty. May your rule be long and well.” Yrit inclined his head as Riina went off to look for Inalla.

That one could be dangerous. Liranif noted as Yrit watched the Queen walk away. She has the ear of the King.

Riina is a pawn, nothing more. Yrit smiled. She can do no more to hinder us than the lowest urchins could.

Do not underestimate the lowly, Yrit. Liranif cautioned. You are the perfect example of this.

Shut up.

Yrit walked into the throng of adoring citizens, a storm of conflicting emotions boiling inside him. He didn’t even notice the movement in the sewer grate right next to his path.