There was one deity, however, who had chosen to live on earth. Zomuri, god of glory, lived in sulfurous caverns in the center of Kichona. And so Mareo embarked on the long and treacherous journey there.
When he finally found the god’s home, he was on the cusp of death. Still, Emperor Mareo laid out many offerings for the god. There was gold. There was silk. And mounds of tiger pearls. Zomuri hoarded riches.
On the eighth day, Zomuri appeared. He was a giant wearing an elegant silk robe decorated with embroidered flames. He stroked his long beard with a ten-fingered hand, then picked up the gold and the silk and the spears in turn.
Emperor Mareo looked up through muddied strands of hair. “Great Zomuri, I—”
The god waved at him. The gesture choked off the emperor’s voice.
“I know what you want,” Zomuri said, scoffing. His breath smelled powerfully of spoiled eggs. “Did you think that gold and silk would be enough to buy you paradise?”
Emperor Mareo shook his head furiously. Through sheer force of will, his voice broke through the god’s magic. “This was merely an offering. But I am willing to pay whatever it takes.”
Zomuri eyed him now with an inkling of curiosity. It was nearly impossible to break through a god’s spell. And yet Mareo had managed to speak.
“If it were possible to grant you paradise on earth,” Zomuri said slowly, “what would you do to achieve it?”
Mareo swiped the grimy hair from his face and looked eagerly at the giant. “I have my entire life to give. I have my entire soul to dedicate to you.”
The god considered this. It would be quite a coup to have an emperor worship him rather than Sola. But then Zomuri shook his head. “Your life and your soul are not enough.”
Emperor Mareo hesitated. But he pulled back his shoulders and said, “I promise all the lives it shall take. All the people I conquer shall worship you. All I kill shall die in your name.”
Zomuri smiled. “Do what I bid of you, and you shall have your paradise on earth. You shall have the Evermore.”
The curse was made.
Emperor Mareo’s legs buckled beneath him from exhaustion, and he hit the ground. He wept, but out of gratitude rather than pain. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.”
Zomuri picked him up by the scruff of his neck and stood him back on his wobbling legs. “Do not thank me yet. There is much work to be done. You will broaden Kichona’s borders as far as the eye can see. You will convert the people of the lands you conquer to our faith and make them worship me. And you will pay your tithe to me in blood.”
The emperor quivered under the burden with which he’d been bestowed. But he had asked for it. And he wanted the Evermore.
“The first tithe you owe comes due to me as soon as you return home. You shall find Kichonans aged one to one hundred, a male and female each, and sacrifice their lives to me in the Ceremony of Two Hundred Hearts. Only then will I grant you the right to seek the Evermore.”
Emperor Mareo’s jaw hung open. “You want me to kill two hundred of my own people? Babies? Old women?”
Zomuri huffed, and a cloud of sulfurous air billowed from his nose. “The Evermore is the greatest prize of them all. Blood must be shed to make Kichona into the empire I want. Therefore, the first step is a ritual to prove to me that no life is too precious for you to spare, whether young or old, Kichonan or not.”
The emperor stood in the cavern, knees quaking. It was unspeakable, what Zomuri asked.
But it was also a small price to pay to bring paradise to the rest of the kingdom.
With this mission bestowed upon him, Emperor Mareo returned to his palace. He called for volunteers throughout the kingdom, a male and a female for each age between one and one hundred, promising them glory. And then, away from curious eyes, he slaughtered them, offering their hearts to Zomuri.
After that, Mareo’s armies massacred tens of thousands overseas, and he pursued his goal to the end of his days.
But when he died, Kichona’s borders barely skimmed the edges of the mainland. The mantle of the curse would have to be picked up by another disciple, who would, like his predecessor, offer the blood of many, many others.
Thus, it continued. There were periods of peace, when no one was foolish enough to desire what Zomuri had offered, not at so high a cost. But the avarice of men always rears its head again, and in time, another would try for what those who had come before him had failed to achieve.
But there was never enough blood to quench Zomuri’s thirst for glory in his name. Never enough for the god to grant heaven on earth. Therefore, it was not man who achieved immortality but, rather, the curse, which trailed their greed like an unshakable, eternal shadow.
The Evermore was never worth its price.
Chapter Ten
A crowd had formed in the center of the camp in Takish Gorge. The Dragon Prince walked to the edge of it. He cleared his throat.
The warriors turned. As soon as they saw it was him, they bowed and said, “Your Highness,” and stepped aside.
A path quickly appeared. Two taiga warriors from Paro Village had been captured that morning, and they were being kept in cages made of the skulls and femurs of foxes and wolverines and other forest animals, held together and unbreakable by magic. It was a specialty of another one of Gin’s soldiers.
The Dragon Prince strode to the cages and peered inside. “New recruits?” he asked.
The prisoner on the left gawked at him.
Was it because she was surprised to see him? Or was it the hideous scars on his face? Gin fought the urge to draw the hood of his cloak over his head. A true leader showed no fear. He had to project the aura of impenetrability.
Meanwhile, the taiga prisoner in the other cage spat at him. “I’d rather die than join a traitor like you.”
“Oh, really?” one of Gin’s warriors in the crowd asked. It was Skeleton, the one who’d built these cells. “Let’s see how true that is.”
Without his even forming a mudra or uttering a chant, the bones of the cage began to arc inward. As they did so, the bars splintered, turning into hundreds of bone stakes and spears. They closed in on the taiga rapidly.
“Stop!” her gemina cried.
Gin let it go on for another second, then held up his hand. The killer instinct in his warriors’ veins was a good thing. However, the taigas were not enemies. They might resist Gin at first, but they were part of the kingdom he meant to rule, to raise to great heights.
Once his warriors were abroad, though, Gin would unleash them and all their magic on their true adversaries.
On his command, the bones of the cage ceased their crushing movement inward.
The taiga in the cage quivered visibly, but contempt still glinted in her eyes.
“Skeleton,” Gin said, “I’d appreciate if you didn’t kill our prisoners before I’ve had a chance to decide what to do with them.”
“Yes, of course, Your Highness,” Skeleton said, bowing. “I let my excitement run away from me. Please accept my apologies.”
Gin turned to the prisoners. “I understand why you hate me. History is written by victors. I lost the Blood Rift; therefore, I’m the enemy. But the truth is, I care for Kichona as much as my sister does. We simply have different views on what’s best for the kingdom.”
The promise of the Evermore swelled in Gin’s heart. It was soft, like the petals of a golden rose trying to bloom, and yet it ached, for it was a dream so big, it couldn’t fully unfurl in the space of one human being. He wanted to share his hope with the kingdom, to make the fantasy a reality for all of Kichona.
It would, of course, mean sacrifices had to be made along the way. Lots of blood would be shed, but it would be outweighed by the happiness, the paradise, that would come. That was Zomuri’s point. Only a truly courageous leader would have the fortitude to do what needed to be done to achieve the Evermore for his people.
Gin had the ability to do it.
Actually, more than that. When he was born, Luna had passed over Aki but had chosen to bless Gin as a taiga. Then, after the Blood Rift, he’d been on the brink of death yet somehow survived. His warriors had fled with him overseas and nursed him back to health in the rugged mountains of Shinowana, where he recovered and discovered new magic. All these improbabilities couldn’t have been an accident. The gods wanted him to know he was special.
Therefore, Gin had the responsibility to pursue the Evermore, to bring the best future possible to his people. It burned like a torch in the center of his chest.
He looked at the two prisoners again. Gin focused on the air around him. His magic appeared, like the dust of a million emeralds ground into glitter, floating in the breeze.
Take control of their minds, he willed the sparkling green particles.