VENGEANCE

Is Our

Legacy

by

M.C. Burnell

Also by M.C. Burnell

The Three Faces of Dissatisfaction

The Shuttle that Weaves the Shroud

The Tale of a Vacant House

The King of Halural

Zimanges

The Spider’s Friend

The Serpent’s Son

The Scarab’s Siblings

We Gather

We Battle

We Shatter

We Alter

We Rise

Into the Darkbower

The Nicodemus Path

A Veil of Waters

Surrender Together

Become

Vengeance Is Our Legacy is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used ficticiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2024 by M.C. Burnell

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All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

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Cover art and design by Miblart

Map and interior by M.C. Burnell

For my mom, because you asked. I hope it still makes you smile.

The Scrawny, Ferret-Faced Sorceress

Two weary walkers faltered when they reached the height of the hill they had been climbing, on the southern horizon: the statue of a bare-breasted woman on a colossal scale, formed of stone and iron. Around her, a broad valley cut by occasional streams lined by trees, the fulvous panorama of bobbing grasses broken intermittently by a farm’s green grid. One arm pointed north, and if the meaning of her warning had been lost, her indomitable presence remained a landmark for travelers.

Central to this landscape, their goal: a boxy house attached to a round tower of beige brick, looking like nothing so much as a landlocked lighthouse. The overgrown road they followed led straight to its door. The yard was wild with untamed honeysuckle and fearsome pink and orange lilies, the buzzing of bees the loudest sound in the environs. When they reached the gate in its fence, they took a moment to collect themselves. Brushed strands of sweaty hair off their brows, adjusted the straps of the packs on their backs, kicked the dust of long walking off their worn but sturdy shoes.

After the length of a minute, the man said, “You’re ready?”

“Yes, Fa,” his daughter replied.

“You’ll be on your best behavior.”

“I’m eighteen, Fa, I think you can trust me not to pick my nose.”

Her father snorted. “If you were ten years younger, I would be less concerned.”

“Fa,” she said with what patience she could muster. “I’ll be fine.”

He heaved a sigh, as if he didn’t believe her, but chose not to argue. Together, they made their way down the garden path to the building’s front door, where her father paused again to gather himself, then couldn’t go on. It fell to her to ring the bell.

They heard footsteps approaching across a wooden floor, and the door was opened by an ancient woman, the sleeves of her white linen shirt rolled up as if they had interrupted her at another chore. She gave them one short bow, then waited silently. Once she had heard what they wanted, she gestured in invitation, stepping back from the door.

The building’s interior was pleasantly cool, its fixtures tastefully restrained. There wasn’t a lot of furniture, pale wood that gleamed with polish. The floors were bare and sparkling-clean, tiles of white and jade at the margin between floor and walls and around the fireplaces, a number of attractive ink paintings on the walls. Several open windows boasted wind chimes fashioned from what looked like broken bottle glass, adding a bit of color and soothing background noise to the household, which seemed unnaturally still.

The old woman left them in a space with a view of the garden in the rear, a mosaic of flowers and decorative grasses nodding in the breeze. After leaning their packs against one wall, they settled on pillows at the room’s center. While she adjusted her hips on the padding, Qanath wondered at what they knew.

This was the home of the great Avatethura Master Xaritu anKebbal, one of the Embodiments of War. Everyone knew Xaritu anKebbal had stopped taking in pupils a handful of years ago, but they had thought it meant Kebbal was fallen on hard times and struggled to make ends meet. Having seen his house, she was no longer sure. There wasn’t a lot of clutter, but the art on the walls was worth more than her father would make in a year.

If Xaritu anKebbal hadn’t stopped training young people in his secret arts because he couldn’t afford to feed all those extra mouths, why had he done it? It was curious in its own right and raised troubling questions about their quest. When she came up with this wild idea, she’d assumed this man would happily take on a new student if he was able. Offering to help pay her own way was sounding less persuasive than she’d hoped.