The Destroyer Goddess (85 page)

He did so, and watched it dance as if it were alive while Mirabar started chanting. His heart pounded with mingled eagerness and dread as he prepared to face the father he had loved, betrayed, and murdered.

"He is coming," Mirabar whispered, her voice tense with anticipation. 

He grew out of the flames, and Tansen caught his breath as he gazed at him. This was exactly how Armian had looked the night he died. Exactly how he appeared again and again in Tansen's dreams.

"Father," he said hoarsely.

"Tansen," Mirabar said, startling him—then he remembered that shades of the dead normally spoke through a Guardian rather than directly to the supplicant. 

He just stared at Armian for a long moment. Then he said, "I've thought of you almost every day since I killed you."

"It's right to think of me often."

"I wish... I wish things could have been different."

"If you're content now," Mirabar said, her voice eerily like the one he heard in his dreams, "then things are as I would have wished them to be."

Tansen felt his eyes mist, and for a moment, he couldn't speak. Finally, he was able to say, "I'm sorry for what I did to you, father. I'm so sorry."

"I know," Armian said. "I know."

"I think... I've asked her to Call you so I can beg for your forgiveness."

"I am your father," Armian told him, Mirabar's voice rich with love. "I will always be your father."

"I'm a father, too, now," Tansen said. "I want to be a better father than I was a son."

"You were a good son," Armian assured him. "I tried to be a good father."

"You were," Tansen insisted.

"And if we were the wrong father and son for each other..."

"Were we?"

"We nonetheless made our choice."

"When you made yours, you didn't know I would kill you," said Tansen, his chest aching.

"Neither did you. But having made the choice and knowing the consequences now... I would make the same choice again. This was our destiny, yours and mine. If I can accept it, so can you."

Tansen closed his eyes and lowered his head. "Thank you, father. Thank you."

He heard Mirabar breathing harder and knew she was getting tired. She hadn't slept in more than a day, and she'd had an exhausting night, as had he. He didn't protest as she let Armian slip away, just watched as his father faded from the woodless fire and finally disappeared altogether. 

A soft drizzle started falling as Tansen gazed into the empty flames where the
shir
still floated, its frantic dance slowly dying along with Mirabar's energy.

After a while, he felt her hand fumble for his. He clasped it and squeezed. "Thank you."

"How do you feel?" 

"I feel..." Tansen smiled and lifted his gaze to the new mountain emerging before their eyes as the gentle rain washed their faces and soaked the soil. "I feel
free
."

There would no more nightmares. From now on, only dreams.

Epilogue

The rains come and the rains go; 

but Dar remains steadfast. And so do we.

                                    —Silerian Proverb

At the summit of Mount Darshon, whose snow-capped, cloud-piercing peak dwarfed the rest of this rugged, mountainous land, the colored lights and dancing clouds which had so alarmed Dar's people slowly began to fade, spreading themselves thinly on the wind, until only the wind remained. 

She had worn Her plumage to welcome the arrival of Her consort, the Firebringer, and to alert Her people to his imminent rebirth, if only they would have the strength to conquer Her enemies. For their sake, She had undergone terrible labor which repeatedly shook this land and made Her bleed long and hard. She had demanded a great deal of them in exchange for Her blessings; but She was the destroyer goddess, and that was Her right.

For a thousand years, Silerians had looked to Dar, the most powerful goddess in a nation of many sects and cults, to liberate them from the yoke of slavery. Now, finally, they had offered Her the courage, strength, and devotion that had always been needed, and which they had never before been able to give.

Deep in the heart of Darshon's raging, fire-spewing sea of lava, Dar rumbled with contentment as She considered the nation She had forged with Her fiery will.

 The End 

Author's Note

The genre which we think of as "fantasy" in modern times is the most enduring form of fiction. When you explore the world's oldest literature, the stories that made the transition from oral tradition to the written word centuries ago, they're tales of quests and prophecies, impossible feats and terrible deeds, gods and monsters, world-changing events and extraordinary magic. And having the opportunity to write tales of larger-than-life challenges which are enhanced by sorcery and mysticism is one of the best things about writing fantasy novels. 

Above all, though, the world's oldest literature is filled with great heroes and legendary heroines. And creating circumstances in which characters are called upon to be so much more than they ever thought they could be, and then figuring out how and why they rise or sink to the occasion, is
the
very best thing about writing fantasy. Because far and away the most important thing in every story—whether the tale is contemporary or ancient—are the characters. The
people
who inhabit a story are what make it live and breathe.

The tales of Camelot and the Round Table are still popular centuries after their murky origins, but not because we're fascinated by an early attempt at good government in Britain. We remember those tales because we're drawn to Arthur, whose strength and idealism are undermined by his tragic mistakes; Lancelot, whose noble reputation crumbles under the weight of his doomed love for another's man's wife; Guinevere, the barren queen torn between two men; Mordred, vengeful about a birthright he didn't choose; and Merlin, the wise sorcerer who, in the end, can't save Arthur from his enemies, his friends, or his own nature. 

The Iliad
hasn't survived millennia because it's the story of how a key city on the Dardanelles fell to the Achaeans. Homer's tales speaks to us across the centuries because vivid characters like Hector and Achilles fight, live, love, and die at Troy, the city where nations go to war over Helen, the queen who left her husband for another man.
The Odyssey
still lives because we enjoy the wily, bold, resourceful Odysseus, not because we're transfixed by the logistics of Bronze Age sea travel. We watch
Hamlet
to see the Prince of Denmark struggle with his difficult decisions and troubled relationships, not because we're dying to see the Danish monarchy crumble.

Although developing religions, weapons, geography, political factions, and rival sorceries for this epic trilogy about Sileria was some of the most fun a writer can have without getting arrested, the characters themselves are always the heart and soul of Sileria's tumultuous tale. If you don't grow to care about Mirabar or find Kiloran compelling, then who really cares how fire sorcery and water magic work in Sileria? If you don't feel attached to Josarian, then his sacrifice doesn't mean anything. If you aren't invested in Tansen, then his fate doesn't matter—and thus neither does the fate of Sileria. 

Just as any enduring legend is ultimately about the people who lived it, a good novel is also always about people; and their tale is always, in the end, about the human heart in conflict with itself—which William Faulkner once said is the only thing worth writing about, the only thing worth the agony and sweat of writing a book.

So, as you come to the end of Sileria's story and depart from the mountainous island nation which floats in the heart of the Middle Sea, surrounded by mainland empires that rise in glory and descend in flames... I hope that you've grown attached to Tansen, Josarian, Mirabar, Zarien, Kiloran, Elelar, Baran, Najdan, and Ronall in their turbulent struggles for freedom, power, love, friendship, vengeance, or peace. I hope that you will think of them from time to time, and perhaps even revisit their world now and then.

—Laura Resnick

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