Note from the author:
Hello, dear readers! Since the last time I updated this story, I have gotten divorced, moved several times, taken a new job, and quit that job due to disability. I am now in a stable, safe environment. I'm also a little embarrassed to tell you that I have not thought about this project in years.
I wanted to extend a special thanks and virtual hugs to PedrePaxim for bringing to my attention that people were reading this and were interested in hearing how Potent ends. Please check out their works on Wattpad - they are also a writer and their feedback has been so important to this project. The truth is, someone very close to me that I trusted once told me that Potent was no good, and I believed them enough to abandon it.
The good news is twofold: that person is now out of my life. Also, and even better, there is absolutely more of this story that is already written! I just have to post it!
The bad-ish news is that the copy may not be as clean as I would like. I have needed beta readers badly, and I will continue to welcome feedback and corrections as I post the rest of this book here on Wattpad. As a warning, this story is big - bigger than just one book, and from what I recall, the end sets up the next one. Hopefully over the next year, I can get this, book 1, to a place where it is ready to show to publishers.
If you've been reading along and you've had encouraging words or discrepancy catches for me, thank you so, so much. I hope you enjoy the next few chapters.
* * *
Ber, Day 16 of Melia, Winking Moons, Year 602
Those who wish to become master combatants may look forward to passing two prerequisite levels; novice and journeyman, prior to completing their education. Combatants are colloquially known as Dippers because to aid in tasks, they frequently ingest or apply brews topically to their bodies or to weapons to produce certain effects. —Our Classes, Ourselves: A University of Craestor Publication
* * *
It was early evening in Daitak Capital, and Alisia sat alone composing a letter in the outer portion of the apartments she shared with Emperor Bryn Beynon.
She thought warmly for a moment of Governor Watkyn from Craestor and how kindly he'd treated her.
Even after all these years, the Eralian princess was still a foreigner in Urda, and the residents at the capital treated her with removed formality. Having been raised by a large and friendly family, she missed the frank honesty of true friends and allies she could trust.
She dipped the modest goose quill into a pot of kohl and paused.
"...no new movement on that front, I am happy to report..." the last few words of her missive read.
Alisia had to be careful in her communications as they were most certainly monitored. She made sure to coat everything in eight or nine layers of meaning—and it was especially challenging to do this as Urdan wasn't her first language. As she puzzled over what to write next that would be easily discernible without alerting suspicion, she heard tinkling laughter emanating from down the hall outside her door.
At the sound of footfalls to confirm the approach of others, Alisia smoothly turned her letter written side down and moved her ink to the corner of the little table. She'd brought a book with her—some generalized title about Urdan geography—and she slid this into place over her parchment, assuming an absorbed look just as the door opened.
It was Bryn and that insipid concubine of his—Treese, she was called. She hung on his arm like a pretty little piece of jewelry, and fresh jealousy seethed within the young empress like poisonous vines clambering slowly up the keep wall.
Bryn stopped short guiltily when he saw her, and little Treese regarded her blankly, much as one might upon encountering a bug on one's chamber floor.
I'm inconsequential, Alisia thought for what had to be the hundredth time since coming to Urda, and to Daitak in particular. Not significant in the least. Not to him, anyway.
Beynon schooled his features into something resembling friendliness and gave her, "Good evening, Alisia."
She nodded at him by way of reply.
"Interesting read, no?" he remarked, indicating her book choice.
She glanced down for a moment, then back up at him. "Very absorbing," she replied.
Treese gave an awkward, tittering little laugh to fill the silence that followed.
Alisia despised the woman.
Bryn grinned in response to that and moved to lead the concubine toward his inner chamber.
"Oh," he added, with an air of remembering something important he needed to communicate to her. "I expect you'll remember my summer feast is coming up in a week or so."
A chill walked up her spine at his toothy, dangerous smile.
"I remember," she said softly. Divines, but I'm sure the whole of Heladrith remembers, she amended silently. And then you'll be loosed on the lot of us to birth your civil war, won't you?
"You're invited to the celebration, of course," he said airily.
"Of course," she repeated stupidly.
He smiled at her then. "I like your hair when you dress it that way."
Alisia sat up a little straighter, thinking he had misspoken, or else addressed this to Treese, but he was looking at her.
"Thank you," she breathed, and it was almost a question.
Bryn nodded slowly at her. "You're also invited to the council meeting," he said. "I've called an extra session on the morning of the big day. I've been looking forward to this for a long time."
Alisia swallowed. "I know."
Suddenly chipper, he patted Treese on the forearm. "Well, good," he said needlessly. "I will see you there, then. Please have the courtesy to wear the capital's colours. The others will expect it, and it will reinforce the idea that you harbor no thoughts of treason." Then Beynon snorted. "I've no idea if that's true, but let's keep up the appearance, shall we?"
He took the whore away then, and Alisia sat alone, fear freezing her heart as she heard the door to his bedroom click softly shut. Her hands trembled as she slowly picked up her quill once more to finish the letter, hoping against hope for some change in her situation. She was a glorified prisoner here in Daitak.
Slowly, her face heated and her eyes glazed with unshed tears.
Little by little, the quiet but increasingly insistent sounds of their lovemaking floated toward her through the closed door, and Alisia took as much as she could stand before gathering up her things. A tiny fire kindled within her, and she left the chamber beaten but resolved to act.
This would end. There was always something she could do.
* * *
Ger strolled leisurely through the streets of Craestor. His courses were over for the day and he'd broken away to attend a lecture at the temple.
Since the utterly fascinating experiments in potion-making with Master Bricot, he'd become more and more keen to pick up knowledge on the Divine Pantheon in general, and the God of the Cosmos in particular.
Most Heladrithian people, though they worshiped the Pantheon, understood that the gods didn't manifest these days the way they once had. Once, the gods and goddesses had walked the earth and shaped it. They'd warred, married, and mingled with the mortals inhabiting the globe.
Now, though—well, they were old. And tired. Many believed that the gods slept.
But that was obviously no excuse to let up on temple attendance, giving, worshiping, and praying. Respectable folks would always worship the Pantheon.
The dearth of the gods had bothered him as soon as Ger was old enough to learn about the Divines. He constantly asked his elders why they'd gone so quiet and when they might be coming back. His stunned parents hadn't known exactly what to say.
Since he was a small child, Ger had always prayed to Calumn faithfully—and to the rest of the Pantheon also—but for the first time, he was beginning to place precious trust in his relationship with the god. The predictable nature of the trials with his brews at school was spooky. It had led him to second guess the whole way he regarded his religion.
As a result, Ger had stepped up where his religious practices were concerned.
Master Alchemist Farax seemed to possess a wealth of knowledge on the Divine Pantheon, so he'd utilized her as a valuable resource. And he'd heard there would be a lecture today at the temple in the center of town on the Silence of the Gods.
He was determined to be among the listeners.
The sun shone today, and the Melian sky had turned hot and muggy. He swatted at a nasty cloud of gnats that insisted on flooding the air about his face, and spat in annoyance when one of them made its way into his mouth. It would be a relief to real the cool dark of the temple sanctum.
He was surprised to encounter Farax herself just leaving the Restless Rabbit herb shop.
She didn't see him at first. She was absorbed in stuffing a cloth-wrapped bundle haphazardly into her worn satchel. Her long, thick hair was bound up today in a large knot at the back of her head. Her simple eborel kirtle fell to the ground, but she'd tucked it up on one side, ostensibly so she could move more easily as she ran her errands.
"Master Farax," he called to her, waving.
For such a humid day, the square was busy with shoppers and sightseers, and he had to call out again before she turned to face him.
She smiled and waved back.
He dodged through groups of citizens and made his way toward her. "What do you do here?" he asked breathlessly.
"Just a bit of shopping. Personal brewing, and all that," she answered lightly.
Suddenly, he was incredibly curious. He'd never thought about this before. What did a master alchemist brew on her days off? She was very pretty, he thought consideringly. Bricot had good taste. Did she use Glamours?
"What about you?" she was asking.
He shrugged. "Oh. Attending a lecture in the temple."
Farax nodded thoughtfully. "I heard something about that," she told him.
He felt his face colour slightly. "About me and my... faith?"
But she shook her head, replying, "No, about the lecture. The Silence of the Gods? Sounds interesting."
"Oh," he replied, relieved.
"But incidentally," Farax added with a grin, "I did hear about your experiments. How are you doing with all of that?"
He took in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. "Master Bricot's been working with me, just to confirm I wasn't making any of it up," he answered. "It's been confusing, and a little frightening. Other students have bullied me for it, which is unfortunate. And through it all, I've begun to wonder if I shouldn't be serving in a temple somewhere instead of attending classes at Craestor."
She listened to him.
"I was raised by very conservative parents," he added, "And I know they'd be overjoyed to hear I was considering priesthood. But I've already started working toward my degree at the university."
"It's probably a good idea," said Farax slowly, "to finish your journeyman's certificate—so you'll have it—and then figure out what you want to do after that. You can always consider priesthood later. But you're a bright student and would make a fine teacher someday. It's probably best to keep your options open."
He nodded. "Bricot said something very similar."
The two trailed off, absently people-watching.
"It'll be strange without him here," Ger added as an afterthought. "Bricot was one of the first masters I met here at Craestor. He's been very kind, and er—giving."
"Mm-hmm," Farax said noncommittally.
"Has he left already?" Ger wondered aloud.
She turned to look at him. "Yes," she said tightly. "I'm afraid so. We said goodbye earlier today."
"I'd heard he was leaving," Ger said sadly. "To travel, yes? Do you know where?"
His master had begun to shift her weight nervously from one foot to the other. "He has family in Boradîn," she answered. "He's gone to stay there for a while. I get the feeling he's very unhappy to be leaving the Facerum behind unfinished. And he's obviously loathe to leave his students. That man loves teaching more than anyone I've ever met."
Ger listened quietly before murmuring. "I can tell."
The master alchemist was growing uncomfortable, so he decided to change the subject. "Where did you amass your collection of myths, songs, and stories?" he asked her. "You seem to know more about the Divine Pantheon than many priests I've met!"
Farax laughed lightly. "I do have a masters certificate," she said. "I paid very close attention in school. I'm a bit of a book hoarder as well, and if I happen to see a work concerning the Divines, I buy it up instantly. I'm not a temple-goer myself, but I find the legends intensely interesting, so I try to incorporate them into my lectures."
He nodded. "I love to hear them. I've been especially interested lately in the movement of the gods where humans are concerned. Do you believe that they truly used to walk among us? Do you think they ever will again?"
Still smiling, she shrugged. "I don't know about that, but it's a lovely thought. I think worship and prayer gives people hope."
Ger was unsatisfied by this but chose not to show it.
Unconsciously, they both turned to throw a glance at the temple in the village square.
Citizens were silently moving up and down the wide stone steps. As Ger watched through the heat, a shimmering haze compromised his view and seemed to bathe them all in molten liquid.
Suddenly, Farax sat stock upright like a hunting dog who'd scented prey.
"What is it, Master Farax?" he asked, concerned. "Are you alright?"
She didn't answer him, but surged to her feet, still erect and staring toward the temple.
"What is it?" he asked her again.
When he followed her gaze, he noticed a sort of commotion in a group of people near the structure. There were a few shouts, and then a scream.
At the sound, Master Farax hiked up her skirts and left him, headed toward the throng of people at a run.
Alarmed, Ger tried to follow, but the energy in the square had taken on a chaotic feel. Others near him began to move erratically, obscuring his path.
Farax disappeared for a moment, but then he caught a glimpse of her dark hair and long gown. He raced toward her.
Something was very wrong.
"Back!" she was screaming at someone. "Stay back!"
The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Where was she? What was she doing?
He noticed citizens begin to clear away from the area immediately in front of the temple.
"Please!" Farax screamed again, and he finally saw her moving along the perimeter with her arms outstretched, panic in her voice. "Quickly! Trust me! Everyone needs to clear out. Go back to your homes!"
A woman moved past him, accidentally bumping Ger in the shoulder as she pulled her young son after her by his tiny hand.
It was then that he noticed a young man huddled near the front of the temple—just a few gerds away from Farax. He was weeping and seemed very distressed about something.
Ger stumbled nearer in order to try and discern what was happening.
When Farax was not policing people and trying to convince them to leave the square, she was carefully approaching the young man and asking him quiet questions that only he could hear.
The man wore dark clothing and clutched something very close to his chest that he seemed reluctant to part with.
Though he didn't yet comprehend the situation fully, Ger listened to his spirit. Wrong, it said. Dangerous, wrong, harmful. Disappear. Flee. De-escalate.
He didn't think twice. Ger took up the master alchemist's cause and started gently shooing people away.
He found an older gentleman and told him, "Sir, everyone needs to leave these premises. This is very dangerous. Please tell everyone you see to go home. Get as far away from the temple as possible."
Ger continued to move through the crowd, telling a small family he met the same thing; a little girl too. "Where are your parents?" he asked her. "It's not safe to be here right now. Go back to your family."
Underscoring it all, Farax's low voice spoke to the agitated man in comforting tones.
Out of the silence, the man's quiet moan crescendoed into a long wail that froze Ger where he stood and chilled him to his bones.
At the disturbance, curious onlookers drew closer to see what was going on. He did his best to discourage onlookers from nearing the temple. The sound of more conversation made him whip his head around to regard his master and the stranger.
"Go away," the man was saying to Farax disconsolately. "I must do this."
She said something else to him and held out a hand to him as if she'd help him up.
"I have to!" he screamed, and she took a few steps back. "I'll be shamed if I don't!"
The shoppers were curious. Ger put his arms out like a barrier to keep citizens from squeezing in and disrupting the scene further. Try as he might, he could not pick up on Farax's words as she spoke them. What was happening here? And why did everything suddenly feel so terribly, terribly wrong?
The master alchemist still held her arm extended insistently out to the young man.
With a frenetic energy, and so quickly that Ger almost missed it, the troubled man leapt to his feet and cocked his arm back as if he would throw something at Farax's face.
She instantly dropped to the dusty earth, gown and all, covering her head with her arms.
And Ger understood with terrible certainty.
This man held a highly combustible martial material—a potion ostensibly designed to harm others when broken. It looked as if he wished to incinerate the temple.
Or Farax's head.
Whichever came first.
His legs went to jelly, and Ger stayed on his feet only through sheer force of will. At any moment, all of them might be sent to meet the Divines. He tried not to think about the deafening sounds of an explosion and hellish blaze of tumbling stones. He didn't think he'd ever been more frightened in his life.
But as soon as Farax had flung herself to the ground, the man lost his nerve and diminished into a sobbing heap once more.
Was he afraid to do it?
She lifted her chin slightly to regard him, and when Farax saw that the young man had crouched once more in the shadow of the temple stairs, she lifted herself on her forearms and approached him again. She spoke gently and soothingly to him, holding her hands out beseechingly to him. This time, she kept herself on a level with him, kneeling in the dust.
Ger's heart pounded wildly. Could she subdue him?
Next to him, an older woman cried, "What is it? What's happening?" and a woman of childbearing years attempted to muscle past him. Ger held her back, shaking his head at her.
The man quieted, took a few deep breaths, and then stood up very slowly.
Farax matched him, motion for motion. She faced him, white-faced, with her back to the temple. Her hands were splayed at each side; her knees carefully bent as though she wanted to be ready for anything.
"Calumn, save us," breathed Ger.
It all happened very quickly.
The man in dark clothes made a feint at her, then moved the other way.
Ger saw Farax grimace at the pain in her wrenched knees, but she gritted her teeth and managed to catch him tightly by the shoulders. Moving fast, she pinioned his arms to his sides at the wrist with her forearms. One of his hands still clutched the potion, but he couldn't lob it at his target with his hands stilled.
He gave an angry cry and flung his head back—hard.
It hit her square in the face, and her nose seemed to burse into instant bloody rivulets. She blinked through them with a whimper, but did not let go. Ger saw her glance down at the bottle, probably trying to gauge if she could pry it out of his hand without detonating it.
The man growled and flexed his neck this way and that, trying to get free. Then he began savagely stomping at the ground around them, trying to catch one of her feet.
Ger could not hold the others back any longer.
The milling crowd filled the air with chaotic chatter. They were frustrated by the holdup, probably wishing only to visit the temple, finish their errands, and return home for an early supper. They couldn't hear what was going on, and didn't understand the risk. Several people broke forth and clustered tightly around the temple perimeter, which was—Ger reflected—probably exactly what the man had wanted.
"Please!" he screamed at them desperately. "The man is a slinger! You've got to get back!"
They heeded him not at all.
After failing to crush Farax's feet to give himself an advantage, the man gave up and released every bit of his body weight, sinking quickly to his knees and trying to unseat her.
It worked.
Her frame was so slight compared to his that the motion flung her bodily over his head and straight down onto her back.
Ger winced at the sickening sound of impact she made coming down and at the cloud of dust their scuffle had raised.
With Farax down in the dirt and gasping up at the man like a pale fish, he staggered up from his knees and took a shuddering breath. Then he threw his head back, screaming, "Death to the empire!" and took a running start toward the doors of the temple.
He hadn't yet seen her draw breath, but with a strength Ger did not understand, Farax rolled to her feet and scampered after him.
Ger thought with dismay that she might try to catch him again—and he knew how that would end. But she surprised them all by darting quickly past him. Silent tears coursed down her face to mingle with the blood still running from her nose.
The man stopped himself suddenly, using the impact to hurl the bottle up the stairs and toward his target.
Finally—and perhaps too late—the crowd around Ger seemed to understand what was happening and began to scramble over each other to get out of the courtyard and away from the temple. This left him free to move forward as they all awaited impact.
He wondered what the explosion would feel like. Would the pain hit first? Or would the force of motion simply sweep through them before death was actually dealt?
His teacher moved faster than he'd ever seen anyone move. She scrabbled up the steps, astounding them all with her speed.
The bottle, still airborne, looked as though it would hit one of the temple doors.
Farax fell against it, causing the door to fly wildly inward. In its place, she cupped both hands and leapt up high to catch the missile.
As her fingers touched the bottle, she allowed her hands to move with it in a careful arc, stilling its momentum gradually. She landed badly on one ankle, and Ger could hear the snap from where he stood in the square.
No explosion sounded.
The assassin screamed something incoherent and made to pursue her.
There were only a few people to squeeze past, and he knocked one of them down by accident, an older woman.
He didn't care.
Before he knew what he was doing, Ger had raced forward and thrown himself at the man's back. It took only a few steps.
The man was warm and sweating. He'd tried to destroy the temple. He'd attempted to murder them all.
Overcome by a strange silence, Ger clawed and scratched at every patch of skin he could find—the neck, his biceps—until he felt shreds of it come up to stick beneath his fingernails. He even tried to tighten one of his spindly forearms around his opponent's throat, but the man whipped his upper back and threw Ger to the ground.
It was stunning to him that an impact could be so absolute.
Shocked, he stared up at the man's distorted visage and tried to draw breath. While Ger's vision swung crazily about, the man in dark clothing strode closer, then knelt next to him. He was cocking a meaty hand to deliver the blow, and then the world turned sideways and went dark.