Ixchel’s skill had been honed by the fact that her body no longer held her back. She moved quickly, aided by the wind and her lightness, and most of his blows either missed her or were gracefully parried.
Narune, on the other hand, fought like the coyote he borrowed from, teeth and claw ever before him, every step a pounce, every flick of his Blade like jaws seeking a throat. He Channeled as much as he dared, casting Devour to cover himself and Hunger’s Ward to ward against the many strikes and spells that still got through.
He’d given up on Thousandth Sun after he’d wasted energy trying to catch Ixchel by surprise—she saved her own strength to Channel whenever she was caught off guard, and the speed and prediction abilities it gave her all but made his attacks push her away harm, just like when trying to slap a fly with a closed hand.
It didn’t take long until the world dimmed down to just the two of them. He didn’t know what the other spiritseers were doing, but Narune no longer cared. His black Blade flashed through the air and slammed against Ixchel’s amber Blade again and again, and their breaths came quick and hard.
The storm continued to rage, the rain heavy, the wind whipping stormwater against them to mix with their sweat and blood. The Flows of Creation were deep, and now the screams of the Jurakán were like hammers thudding into his head and he struggled to hold them back while focusing on his Channeling.
Pushed to his limit, Narune fumbled a strike and felt the tip of Kisari’s Blade cut across his cheek and skid off the bridge of his nose. She was already leaping back, but saw the opening and immediately cast a spell. Narune drew every bit of strength to reinforce his Hunger’s Ward, taking the shredding flurry of wind head-on while reaching out his Blade to cast Thousandth Sun—but this time he poured all his strength and focus into controlling it.
There were shadows everywhere, but it was difficult to direct the spell with precision, and he’d also need to fuel each entropic strike with Blackflow.
Crescents erupted from the shadows and converged to the right of Ixchel like a flock of inky birds.
Blood streamed out from a wound across Ixchel’s arm as she spun away, but now she was unbalanced, and in a panic. She sent a whirling dagger of wind toward him, reflexively.
He swallowed it with Devour and watched as his Blade became amber-bordered-by-black, then stupidly shouted a warcry like the stupid novice he was.
Ixchel shouted back and swung her Blade.
They launched whirling daggers of wind at each other, faster and faster, Narune’s heart screaming as he struggled to maintain his Channeling and keep the flickering memory of Amberflow ignited inside him.
His Amberflow burned out as Ixchel flung two final daggers of wind from her Blade and then followed after them. The Jurakán pressed close, almost protectively, the storm’s voices sounding as if they were just beyond his shoulders. They promised victory if he would only gave them the chance.
Narune could see the truth of their promise clearly. The Jurakán was able to read Ixchel’s Flow and seemed confident in its ability to overwhelm her once unleashed—
—and that realization in turn reminded Narune that this was all the opposite of what he had set out to do.
Narune twisted from the incoming daggers and gasped as his side and shoulder sprayed blood, but moved forward anyway. He sent out a final, jarring Thousandth Sun just before him. The spray of crescents from his shadow forced Ixchel to skid to a halt and stopped her momentum. Narune parried her immediate, clumsy strike, then left a Devour in the air for her return swing. She retreated, fighting for distance once again, and again he followed, but Narune knew that he and Ixchel were both spent.
There was a panicked flurry of movement. Nothing fueled them other than strained muscles, reducing them back down into simple warriors, but they kept swinging out of sheer stubbornness.
They gasped and recoiled from a brutal crashing of their Blades, then they both snarled and forced their bodies to turn, fighting against the backward momentum, and swung—the next heartbeat stretched out longer than it really was and Narune saw that they would kill each other.
Their Flowing Blades paused, hers against his throat and his against hers.
They both stood there, panting, in the storm.
Then Narune slowed his Channeling and let his Blade go back to slumber and bowed as much as he was able. “You fought well.”
“Are you giving up?” Ixchel cried, her amber Blade still against his throat.
“If I wanted to kill you, I could have.”
“And you would have died, too.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
Ixchel frowned at him. “The elders and cacica are watching, you idiot. You’re going to stand there and tell them you won’t fight? That’s all you’re good for!”
Narune smiled tiredly. He glanced around him, still near the edge of the Proving Grounds. Rain fell heavily, and the glowing coral lanterns didn’t help the gloom much. The other spiritseers were there, their Blades awoken, but none of them had interrupted, and none of them looked like they wanted to continue.
He turned to face the cacica. She sat beneath a canopy of oversized leaves that had been woven together, her sentinels flanking her. Beside her, Kisari and Sanemoro stood with worried and confused expressions.
“Well?” Cacica Yabisi asked. “She asked you a question.”
“I’m done fighting,” Narune told her. “I’ve shown you everything I wanted to, I think.”
He thought of Ikenna. The spiritseer had died for Narune’s sake by his own choice, and against halja. A warrior’s death, one with meaning. But this battle… this wouldn’t prove anything other than he was willing to harm or kill his own kin for the sake of his dreams.
A monster by choice.
Narune fell shakily to a knee and bowed low as much from respect as exhaustion. He glanced at Ixchel, licked his lips, and said, “If, even after all this, I still haven’t convinced you that I’m not what you fear me to be, then I don’t think I can convince anyone. So I will accept defeat.”
“Naru—” Kisari began, stricken, but a sentinel whipped his spear into the wooden floor before her to silence her. She glared at the muscular woman, but the sentinel didn’t even turn her head.
The cacica simply nodded.
It was Tessouat who spoke, and his nearness shocked Narune. “So?” the elder asked as he spun a small circle. The novices had gathered closer, including the Blueflow spiritseer, who had returned from outside the arena. “Would you trust this Halfborn enough to fight beside him?”
To Narune’s surprise, they all nodded one by one. Ixchel let out a long breath of relief, and then gave him a hesitant smile when he stared at her. She looked like she was about to cry, and emotions surged across her face.
Their eyes met, and for the briefest moment she smiled—once again the Ixchel he had always known and loved—then her smile died and she turned away, head hanging low, a look of shame on her face.
“It’s true that young Ixchel and the others revealed you to us,” Tessouat said gently. “But she did so to recommend you be formally adopted into the Spiritseer Circle.” He glanced at the other spiritseers, some of them youths whose names Narune didn’t even know. “They volunteered to prove what you had already shown them during the ambush.”
Stunned, Narune turned back toward her, but she still refused to meet his gaze. Kisari careened into him a moment later, embracing him fiercely, and then they faced Ixchel together.
“I said and did horrible things to both of you,” Ixchel said awkwardly. “We all did, but I’m the one who was supposed to be your friend. I don’t deserve your forgiveness and won’t ask for it. Honestly, if it had been me in Narune’s position back during the fight, I don’t think I would have stopped my Blade.” She slumped her shoulders and looked away. “But… I’d like you to let me try, Narune and Kisari. Even if I never end up actually earning your forgiveness—even if you tell me you’ll never, ever give it to me—I still want to try, because you
both deserve that much.”
Narune frowned, unsure of what to say to any of that. Ixchel had been cruel and had caused both Narune and Kisari so much pain, but, despite that, he had never stopped caring for her.
Kisari spared him from the need to say anything, however. She went and took Ixchel’s hand, then drew her toward Narune, and embraced the both of them. It was a simple gesture, but Kisari filled it with so much raw emotion that Narune found himself smiling as he embraced his friends in return.
“I’m… I’m so sorry,” Ixchel said, her voice cracking. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Somehow. I swear it.”
Kisari eyed her. “Imagine what you are feeling now, but many, many times worse. That is how Narune and I felt. Promise to never make us feel like that again, Ixchel, and we’ll give you the same promise.”
Narune slowly nodded in agreement. “I never wanted you to suffer, Ixchel. I only wanted my friend back.”
Ixchel seemed at a loss, and the look of utter embarrassment on her face was something Narune had only seen a few times before. “Of course,” Ixchel whispered. “Even that’s more than I deserve. Thank you.”
Kisari snorted. “Oh, don’t thank us yet. We’re still going to make sure you’re worthy of our forgiveness. For starters, I want so many trinkets that I won’t be able to stand.”
Ixchel laughed. “I’ll give you whatever you want, Kisari.”
“Oh? Anything? You promise?”
“Yes, anything, and I’ll give it to you gladly.”
Kisari looked pleased with herself and giggled. Narune watched them for a moment, overwhelmed by a content sense, then tiredly glanced around the Proving Grounds.
Sanemoro was still on the viewing platform, smiling down at them with pride. The cacica stood beside the sage, her expression thoughtful.
Narune knew that was all little more than a step forward, but, at long last, he was on his way toward everything he had been trying achieve; the Spiritseer Circle had acknowledged him, the cacica approved of the path he needed to walk, and already Ixchel and the others were beginning to see the truth about Halfborn—the same truth he had been shouting all along.
All he had to do was find a way to take another step, then another, and then, maybe, he would someday reach his dreams.
Chapter 29
Colibrí and Peacemaker faced each other across a wide root-road shrouded by a cluster of layers above. Her own coral lantern stood between them, well-fed and bright, its light the natural blue the coral usually gave off. The air was filled with the sound of trickling water and rustling leaves, but not even the coquí had resumed their chorus, and the calls of birds and beasts were far and few.
The Guardian filled the space around them, looping around and between the tangle of the forest. Her head rested across a portion of herself, angled so that a single amber eye looked down on them. Her tongue flicked out every so often, but her wings were tucked and her eyelids were heavy, making her seem disinterested.
And maybe the Guardian was. Maybe she thought this all pointless considering where it would probably lead anyway.
Not even Colibrí was sure why she had agreed to this, but here she was, arms crossed over her spear. Her ears were limp, but not quite flat, and she was so tired that her tail was a weight pulling at her lower back.
She eyed Peacemaker, standing on the root-road with his hands on his side, his strange halja-gray garb covering every bit of him. His featureless mask, which had no openings, made him all but impossible to read.
“Well,” she said to him, eyes narrowing. “You have one notch, though I’m not sure there’s anything you could possibly—”
“I was one of the first Halfborn,” Peacemaker said without preamble.
Colibrí froze, mouth hanging open. Her breath halted and for a moment she feared her heart might stop too.
She slowly looked up at the Guardian, but the serpent’s eyelids remained heavy.
“I did not know,” the Guardian said, her voice echoing from all around them. “I was busy fighting, and then busy being dead, so I was not there when the spiritseers ended the maddened Halfborn of old. I was told they had all been slain and I tasted no lie, though I now see why that was.”
A deep frown etched itself onto Colibrí’s face. She snarled and pointed her spear at him. Countless fears and questions swarmed within her mind, but all she said was, “Explain.”
“At the great battle, only some of the Halfborn went berserk and had to be put down like beasts,” Peacemaker said. “The rest of us became… like me. We were gathered together, and then, while we were still confused and terrified, executed—but don’t mistake me. Had I been on the other side of the spears I would’ve done the same. Out of duty, if not mercy.”
“There are others like you who escaped, then?” Colibrí asked.
“Yes, but all that you have struggled against, all those taken from you, was due to my actions alone.”
She considered her thoughts and calmed her breathing, but her heart was thudding. “Was it because of the Jurakán…?”
Peacemaker looked at her for a moment, his head slightly tilted. “Yes, you could say it was because of the Jurakán.”
She licked her lips. “Will we eventually become like you?”
“Beware,” the Guardian hissed. “He does not need sorcery to deceive.”
“I’ve no need for deception,” Peacemaker snapped up at the Guardian. He then spread his arms. “A difficult question to answer, Colibrí. It’s certainly a possibility, but none of us carried the Jurakán long enough to know whether this transformation is an inevitability.”
“How did you and the others turn, then?”
“I’m sorry, but that isn’t something I’m allowed to reveal to you.” Peacemaker said apologetically, and he bowed. “We are desperate for comrades.”
“You’ll never find an ally in me. Not ever. Besides, you’ve already revealed enough,” she said, desperately grasping. “I ignore the Jurakán, which is probably why—”
Peacemaker made a sound like laughter, though it was raspy and sickly. “You believe yourself special? Many of us were so terrified of the screams that we refused to use the Jurakán. Others gave in without care, and a few showed impressive mastery by being able to dive in and out of the rage as if it were the sea. Yet we all eventually fell, either by becoming mindless beasts or—” He paused to gesture at himself. “—by turning into this.
“So, allow me be blunt, Colibrí. Knowing what I know now, I don’t believe there was ever any hope for the Halfborn. Whether or not you wield the Jurakán, you will always fight it, and there can only be a single victor in the end. Yet, unlike the storm, a human isn’t tireless or infallible.”
I don’t care what you believe. Colibrí refused to accept that she—or Narune and Kisari—had no say in their fate. But… Well, Colibrí would be lying if she said his words didn’t disturb her deeply. Her tail twitched, and she glanced across his body. She needed to know more, as much as possible, and from as many angles as she could force. Now I regret only giving him a notch. “Are you and your kin halja, then?”
“Come and look.” Peacemaker gestured for her to come nearer.
She hesitated for a moment, but then moved forward. He stepped closer until he stood right before the coral lantern and lifted a hand. The gray cloth and mask faded, first smearing like wet ash and then simply crumbling away like dust.
It was almost like watching someone’s skin being flayed.
Beneath was the gray sinewy lattice of halja, but the shape was disturbingly human, even if Peacemaker lacked hair, eyes, mouth, and all the other details that made up a person. It was as if someone had given up after merely drawing an outline of humanity.
There was also less space between the strands of sinew, and they weren’t chaotic or random. Instead, they made neat, symmetrical patterns, and the holes in his head were almost like intricate symbols. He seemed sturdier than normal halja, the sinew thicker.
What struck Coli
brí the most, however, was that, unlike true halja, Peacemaker wasn’t quite hollow.
An odd, gelatinous substance filled the inside of him, but it didn’t spill or shift when he moved. It looked like cloudy tree sap frozen in place.
“It’s not as terrible as it seems,” Peacemaker said. He flexed a hand. “I still feel everything, but it’s muted. Emotions are sparks, pain easily ignored, but should I choose, I can savor them at will, like the most potent chicha and warding powder.” He shrugged. “You can even stoke pleasure to the point where it leaves you trapped within it for days.”
Colibrí licked her lips and backed away from him. “Why are you telling me all this, Peacemaker? What do you want?”
“What I want, Colibrí, is to free the tribes from their eternal burden.” He glanced up at the Guardian. “That was my dream even while I was human, back when I was a terrible spiritseer and an even worse warrior.” Peacemaker looked back down at Colibrí. “Now, however, I understand that the tribes will never defeat the Stillness. The Islandborn name this conflict a war, but it’s at best the most laughable of skirmishes.
“I promise that when the true war begins, there will be no stopping the devastation. I wanted to find another method—one that I hoped would be more merciful. My kin have allowed me this, and have agreed to stall their own schemes until mine have failed. After all, time is nothing to us now.”
“I’m not sure anyone would ever describe the pain and suffering you’ve caused as merciful,” Colibrí said flatly.
“Think beyond that!” Peacemaker snapped. “Stillness and Creation are incapable of coexisting, so one must annihilate the other.” He threw out a hand. “We’re speaking about an entire world clinging to the hope that it can somehow destroy the Stillness—when it’s already losing—versus simply joining it. Extinction against change.
“Besides, Stillness isn’t entirely foreign, but more like the sea is to the land. Yes, I like that. You fear it only because you know nothing about its depths. I can give you fins, allow you to breathe water, and then the Stillness will simply be another way of life—a new existence. The Islandborn have no word for it, but the realms beyond would most likely call it divinity.”
Cradle of Sea and Soil Page 31
