Beyond the Shadowed Earth Read online

  BEYOND THE SHADOWED EARTH

  JOANNA RUTH MEYER

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  Copyright Page

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  For my dad—this book is pretty weird, but I hope you like it anyway.

  And to J. R. R. Tolkien and Megan Whalen Turner: thank you for your words and your worlds.

  Prologue

  HER FATHER USED TO TELL HER THE story on summer nights, the tall windows in their parlor flung wide, the tangy air blowing up from the sea:

  Once there was a boy who made a deal with a god.

  It was centuries ago, far away in Halda, and the boy’s name was Erris. He lived in a hut on the edge of a wood with his twin brother, Cainnar, and their widowed mother. Erris was fiercely devoted to the gods and brought offerings to their altars every week; Cainnar scoffed at Erris’s beliefs and did not bring any.

  One day, an oracle came to the hut with the news that the gods had chosen Cainnar to be Halda’s first king. The boys’ mother was overjoyed, and Cainnar was quick to accept the declaration of the gods he did not believe in. He went to live in the glittering new palace on the top of a hill by a bright lake, and Erris stayed in the hut with their mother.

  In the winter, their mother fell ill and died, and Erris packed his few belongings and went to the palace on the hill. He thought Cainnar would welcome him gladly, but Cainnar had grown proud. He refused to acknowledge that Erris was his brother—he refused to acknowledge him at all. So Erris became a servant in the palace, because he had nowhere else to go, and he thought in time Cainnar would accept him.

  Cainnar did not. Day after day Erris saw him, dressed in silk and dripping with jewels, the gods’ chosen king. And day after day, Erris’s envy grew, until he could no longer bear it.

  And so he left the palace and climbed up Tuer’s Mountain. Tuer was the first god to be formed on Endahr and was said to be more powerful than all the other gods combined. Erris built an altar to Tuer and waited beside it for nine scorching days and nine freezing nights.

  On the tenth day, Tuer came, and he looked at Erris with deep sorrow. “What is it you wish of me, son of the dust?”

  “I wish to be king in place of my brother,” Erris told him.

  “And what offering do you bring to me, that I might grant your request?”

  “My devotion,” said Erris.

  “That is not enough,” said the god.

  “My life, then.”

  “What good is it to be king if you are dead?”

  Erris thought. “My brother’s life.”

  “He was chosen by the gods already—his life is not yours to give.”

  “What is mine to give?”

  “Your soul,” said the god. “Your time. Your heart.”

  “Take them freely,” said Erris.

  Eda always interrupted the story at this point: “Why would he give those things up so quickly?”

  “Because he was a fool,” her father said, “and because his hatred blinded him.”

  “Very well,” said the god. “If you are certain.” And he spoke a Word of power that burned into Erris’s forehead.

  Erris went down the mountain again.

  When he returned to the palace, he was astonished to find the walls crumbled away, reduced to ancient weathered stones scattered in the grass. He wandered awhile among the ruins, until he came upon a child with a shepherd’s crook.

  “What happened here?” asked Erris.

  “This was the palace of a mighty king, centuries ago,” said the child. “But there is no king here anymore. Oh! I see you are king.”

  And Erris reached up to find a crown upon his head.

  “Here,” said the child, “I shall make you a throne.” He piled up stones and laid leaves on them for a cushion.

  Erris sat. He was bewildered, but felt neither loss, nor anger, nor sorrow, for he had given away his heart, and was incapable of feeling anything.

  “Long may you rule,” said the child. Then he bowed, and went away.

  Erris sat on the makeshift throne as night fell and dawn came again. He sat as the seasons changed from fall, to winter, to spring. He sat as the centuries spun away and he did not age, and he did not die, for he had given away his soul and his time.

  And there he sits still, the king of nothing, the ruler of emptiness.

  “It doesn’t seem very fair,” Eda always said when her father finished the story. “He was only jealous of his brother.”

  “But he should not have made such a reckless deal with Tuer,” her father told her gravely. “The gods are bound by the One who formed them to fulfill their oaths and honor their promises.”

  “Is there no way to free him?”

  “Perhaps there is a way, and perhaps he found it, in the end.”

  “I hope so,” said Eda. “I don’t like to think of him sitting there even now.”

  “One must always take care when treating with gods,” said her father. “It might not be worth the risk.”

  Which is why, when Eda was nine years old and made a deal of her own, she took very meticulous care. After all, her parents were dead and there was no one to look out for her but herself.

  Part One

  STONE AND CROWN

  Long ago, when the world was young but not quite new, a man dared stand against a god, and the god struck him down.

  Chapter One

  EDA SWORE.

  Rain pounded sharp outside the open window of the council chamber, a gust of wind whipping aside the gauzy curtain to display the sprawling city below the palace. Blue-tiled roofs, silver-spired towers, a maze of stone streets—all were as familiar to Eda as breathing, all gleaming wet in the rain. Bells clamored from the spires, warning of the storm that was already here.

  She swore again, with heat.

  “Is something wrong, Your Imperial Majesty?” The Baron of Tyst blinked at her from his place midway down the polished ironwood table. He’d been droning on and on for the last quarter hour, to the rapt attention of her other Barons and assorted nobility, but the sandalwood oil drenching his stubby beard was so distractingly potent she hardly knew what he was saying. The courtiers had barely listened to the young steamship engineer she’d brought in to address them earlier; he now sat on her right, looking for all the world like a scrawny, cornered rat.

  Eda reminded herself of all the reasons she shouldn’t strangle the Baron of Tyst and reined in her irritation. “I fear the rain might delay temple construction.”

  The Baron’s eyes shifted away from hers, and Eda glanced down the length of the table to find most of her Barons unwilling to meet her gaze.

  All except for Rescarin Haena-Ar, Baron of Evalla. He sat opposite the Baron of Tyst, his arms folded across his chest. Rescarin was somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty and more elaborately dressed than anyone else in the room. His jaw was smooth, his dark eyes filled simultaneously with laughter and disdain. “Construction is already delayed, Your Imperial Majesty.”

  Eda’s whole body went cold. “Why?” Her
voice was low, dangerous.

  Rescarin raised his eyebrows, as if daring her to react further. “We’ve used all the stone. There can be no further progress until the next shipment arrives from Halda.”

  “That is absurd. The plans for the temple haven’t changed—we ordered the correct amount of stone. There should have been enough.”

  Rescarin had the audacity to shrug. “We can’t produce building materials out of thin air, Your Imperial Majesty. Halda wasn’t able to send it all in one shipment, and the second one has been delayed.”

  It took all Eda’s willpower to keep herself from lunging across the table, dagger in hand. Gods, how she hated him.

  Enduena was made up of six provinces, five under the command of Barons, the sixth under direct Imperial control. Each province had its own army, ostensibly to protect itself butalso to temper the power of the Emperor or Empress. Most of the Barons ruled their provinces as a kingdom unto themselves, and the two most powerful provinces—Evalla and Tyst—kept the firmest check on the Imperial seat, as well as keeping a check on each other.

  Rescarin had been governing Evalla ever since he’d made himself regent when Eda’s parents had died. He was respected by the other Barons, and any attempt to replace him would have caused an uproar she was not equipped to handle. She had the loyalty of the Imperial army, but it was not a large enough force to subdue all of her Barons and their armies at once. It was a delicate, maddening balance—she needed the Barons to support her in order to remain in control, and they begrudgingly gave her their support to avoid the all-out civil war that would ensue if they got rid of her altogether.

  And so when Eda ascended the throne she’d made Rescarin a Baron, which was higher than her parents’ former ranks of Count and Countess. She’d also officially given him the Governorship of Evalla, with the understanding that he would drastically reduce the size of Evalla’s military. That was one thing the other Barons had wholeheartedly supported her in—they didn’t like the threat of Evalla’s army any more than she did. Rescarin had agreed to her terms and disbanded half of his army. But his power in the capital still held nearly as much sway as hers, so she was left with these endless council sessions, pretending she was wholly in charge when everyone in the room knew she was really not.

  “How long until the next shipment arrives?” Eda asked through gritted teeth.

  “Could be half a year.”

  “Gods damn.”

  Her Barons and other courtiers shifted uncomfortably, but Eda didn’t care. She touched the elaborate gold filigree cuff that circled the length of her left forearm, trying to focus her anger. She’d had the cuff made shortly after her coronation, a replica of one thought to have been worn by Caida, goddess of fire, millennia ago. Eda wished she had an ounce of Caida’s power—she could turn these fools to cinders with an eyeblink.

  She glanced at the young woman with the oval-shaped face and large eyes seated near the back of the room: Niren Erris-Dahril, Marquess of Dyas, who had the esteemed honor of being the only person alive that Eda actually liked. Diamonds hung heavy in Niren’s ears and at her throat, gleaming against her rich bronze skin. No one looking at her would have guessed she’d been a sheep farmer a year ago. Niren regarded Eda with a wry, quiet humor. She gave the slightest shake of her head, lips twitching, and Eda understood her meaning: Why are you being so fanatical about your ridiculous temple?

  But Niren didn’t know everything. Eda refocused on Rescarin. “The temple must be finished by the Festival of Uerc. Construction will move forward. Find the stone somewhere else.”

  Rescarin tapped his fingers against his etched-metal wine cup and didn’t bother hiding his eye roll. “The royal treasury is depleted enough as it is. There’s no money to obtain stone elsewhere, even if it could be found. Wait for the shipment.”

  Domin Odar-Duen, Baron of Idair, squirmed in his seat. He might one day prove to be handsome, but at present he was gangly as a cricket and couldn’t grow a beard. At sixteen, he was the youngest courtier among them and rarely spoke up during council sessions. But he spoke now, very quietly. “No one wants a temple anyway, Your Imperial Majesty. If the gods ever existed at all, they’ve long since stopped caring for the people of Endahr. They don’t need us, and we don’t need them.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Eda coolly. “It is high time Enduenans resumed our devotion to the gods. Only a fool would deny their very existence.”

  Outside, the storm was getting worse. A gust of wind blew the rain in, and an attendant went to shut the window.

  “The new temple has been a foolish endeavor from the start,” Rescarin said. He took a swig of his wine and then frowned into the bottom of his now empty glass. The attendant who had shut the window hurried over and refilled it. “We have the old palace temple. That should be enough.”

  Eda curled her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms. The temple he referred to was in an ancient wing of the palace and hadn’t been in use for nearly a century. She’d wandered there often as a child, drinking in the murals of the nine gods painted by some long-dead artist’s brush, mourning the cracks in the plaster, the crumbling walls and sagging roof. There was an altar at the back of the room, the stone worn smooth from several millennia of royal offerings. Cobwebs and dust were its only supplicants now, joined by the odd sack or two of grain when extra storage was needed.

  “I am not offering the gods an old, ruined temple to mark Enduena’s return to devotion.”

  Rescarin sighed, like he was dealing with the nine-year-old child he clearly still saw her as. “Your Majesty, the late Emperor abolished religious practices for a reason. Trying to reinstate them is troublesome at best. Forget the temple.”

  She ground her jaw, ready to put Rescarin in his place despite the consequences. But then she looked at Niren, saw the crease of concern in her friend’s forehead, and forced herself to appear outwardly calm. “As I have told you many times, Baron Rescarin, that is not for you to decide.” She fixed her eyes on each of her Barons in turn. “The temple will be built before the year is out. The money for the stone will come out of your provinces’ treasuries, and if there is none to be found, you will tear apart your own cities and use that.”

  Rescarin shook his head. “Your Majesty—”

  “Your Imperial Majesty,” she spat at him. “I am your Empress, and I will have your respect.” It was a daring move, reprimanding him in front of the others.

  For a moment, Rescarin didn’t react or respond. Then he gave her a small, mocking smile and dipped his head in the semblance of a bow. Raiva’s beating heart, Eda wished she could eviscerate him.

  She took a breath and settled deeper into her chair. “As for the matter Baron Lohnin has been speaking about so eloquently”—she glanced at the Baron of Tyst and thought she could practically see his beard dripping oil—“we will not be pursuing a treaty with Denlahn. We will continue to arm ourselves against them and prepare to conquer them for the glory of the Empire.”

  Forty years ago, the late Emperor, bent on expanding his domain, had sent an army by ship to conquer Denlahn. He’d thought it would be easy, like conquering the island province Ryn had been. But Denlahn was filled with trained warriors, as Ryn was not, and the attack on Denlahn ended in slaughter. Enduena suffered heavy losses, and took decades to recover. There had been no further attacks after that first one, on either side, but the Emperor had spent the rest of his reign arming Enduena against Denlahn, and plotting ways to take over the enemy nation. Edameant to finish what he’d started, all those years ago, but she was going to do it properly—she wasn’t about to repeat the Emperor’s mistake. When she’d conquered Denlahn, she’d build temples there, too, and bring their people back to the gods.

  “That’s exactly why I brought my steamship engineer to speak with you all this morning, or were you not listening to his detailed explanation, Your Grace?”

  Eda nodded at the engineer, who nervously adjusted his spectacles and stood up to go over his plans agai
n.

  But Baron Lohnin frowned and waved him back into his seat before he could even open his mouth. “These new ships are untested. They—”

  “They will work.” Eda bristled at the dismissal of her engineer. “The steamers will be more than twice as fast as your outdated sailing ships. They will enable the Empire and our religion to spread quickly.”

  Baron Lohnin flicked his dark eyes to the other courtiers around the table as if to say You see how unreasonable she is.

  Eda tried not to grind her teeth.

  “If you would consider a treaty,” said Rescarin, in that bored-sounding tone she hated so much.

  “A treaty is not what we’re here to discuss!” Eda jerked from her seat, barely reining herself in.

  None of her courtiers stood out of respect for her, as etiquette dictated. They just sat there, staring carefully past her.

  But Rescarin locked eyes with her. “I wonder why you hold these sessions at all, Your Imperial Majesty, if you have no intention of listening to your councilors’ advice.”

  “And I wonder, Your Grace, why you bother coming to them, since you always do exactly as you please.”

  Outside, the rain fell harder, sharp as stones on the tile roof. Lightning flashed, and thunder answered with a resounding craaaack that shook the whole palace.

  Eda’s eyes were drawn to the foot of the table, where a figure stood suddenly beside Niren, its clothes or body made of rippling shadow. Eda stared, horror freezing her in place. For a moment, the figure raised its head, fixing Eda with those shining eyes she remembered so well from her childhood.

  “Tuer.” The god’s name dropped from her lips in the barest whisper.

  He didn’t speak, just touched Niren’s brow with one shadowy hand.

  Niren’s forehead creased in pain, and Eda cried out and leapt toward her.

  But then she blinked and the shadow-god was gone. She stood trembling in the center of the council chamber, rain pounding on outside the shuttered window, lamps flaming orange from their wall sconces.